The Trouble with Genes
by soulnecklace
Summary: Corrine Peterson comes from an unusual family. Carrying a mutation that lets her convert muscle tension to heat, Corrine has been taught since a child to watch her temper. But when her friend is assaulted, Corrine forgets her training... (note: this is a parallel story to the X-men. It doesn't contain the X-men characters tho.)
1. Chapter 1

**Hi, **

**hope you enjoy this and loads of apologies for my absence but I've been super busy doing the sequel to my novel, _A Necklace of Souls_. It's at the publishers now and so hopefully I can relax.**

**This is my idea of relaxation: It's November and I've enrolled in National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo). This is what I'm working on.**

**It's kind of a FF of X-Men, (or possibly the Avengers), but it's not really in their world, I've just taken some of the X-Men ideas and run with it.**

**As always, feedback and comments most welcome, and I hope you enjoy. Warning: its multi chapters and will take a while to finish. :)**

**Thanks and Enjoy!**

**PS I have updated this chapter so it reads a little better.**

Chapter One: GCSE

'The trouble with jeans,' I say, 'is that they're too comfortable.'

'What's wrong with comfort? I like being comfortable,' says Deepthi.

We're lying on the grass, which is kind of amazing because I hate even walking on the lawns of Winslow Park, let alone sitting on them because you're always finding condoms and dog shit there, but Deepthi tells me: "everyone needs to lie on the grass once a year, even you, Corrine."

Deepthi lights a cigarette – if we're going to bunk off school for the afternoon, she says, we may as well Totally Rebel. And then she coughs. And I laugh. Deepthi and smoking don't really go together.

'I'd rather be elegant,' I say.

This sounds like a crazy thing to say where you're lying in dog-contaminated grass but it's true. All I wear is jeans or my horrible school uniform.

It's early summer and there's sun on the leaves above my head. And the grass is long and surprisingly comfortable, given the dog-infestation problem. In the distance I can hear water trickling – there's a stream that travels through the park. There are ponds as well, but they're not as atmospheric, being full of shopping trolleys.

I close my eyes and feel the relaxation start right at my toes, move up my legs, into my head. I sigh out. Deep breathing Corrine. It's what you need when you're feeling stressed.

Deepthi blows smoke into my face. 'Elegant! What are you? Something out of Jane Austen? Oh Miss Peterson. How truly _delightful_ you look this afternoon. Would you care for some tea? That's all people ever do in Jane Austen novels, you know. They talk and drink tea.'

'You're ruining my vibe, Deepthi.'

She flops onto her back. 'Why do you want to be elegant, anyway?' 'Oh. My. God. It's that Jason Carsons, isn't it?'

'No!' Jason's a little shit. Plus, he's shorter than me.

Deepthi giggles. 'What about Robert Frank?' she nudges me. 'He likes you, you know.'

'No he doesn't.' I hope. Robert is a total nerd-head; he's just the sort of guy who'd misinterpret a friend request.

She giggles again. 'Tell me,' she flops onto an elbow. 'What do you think of Jonty?'

'What! Do you like him?'

'Uh huh. Maybe. Don't you dare tell him, though.'

'He has spots.'

'So? Everyone has spots.' She pokes my arm. 'So. Who do you like?'

'No-one,' I say. Which is true. I do not have a boyfriend. I have never had a boyfriend. There. Now I have said it. I, Corrine Peterson, do not have a boyfriend. The phrase "sweet sixteen and never been kissed" could have been written about me. It used to worry me, but not any more. Right now I have other things to worry about.

'So why do you want to be all elegant then?'

I shrug.

'I know why. It's Textiles.' Tipping back her head, Deepthi laughs up at the sun. 'Only _you_ would worry about schoolwork.'

And I'm thinking: thanks a bunch Deepthi. I don't want to think about school right now. So I rabbit on about jeans and clothes. Not that that's really changing the subject, but its side-lining it. 'Look at us. All we wear is jeans in the weekend, and school uniform in the week.'

'What's wrong with jeans? They're practical and hard wearing. And you can go anywhere in them.'

She sounds just like my grandmother. 'Don't you want to wear something a bit special?'

'No,' said Deepthi. 'Mum's always wanting me to wear something special. Me? I'm happy just the way I am.' She waves a finger at the leaves, and looks like she's trying to stab the sunlight. 'I hate all those bloody saris.'

I know Deepthi is my best friend and stuff, but sometimes I just do not get her. I mean, how could anyone prefer wearing jeans to a sari? All those yards of embroidered fabric, so flattering. So exotic. When I say this she makes a face at me and says that saris are really cold in winter.

'How would you know? You don't have any.' As a true Best Friend, I've checked out Deepthi's wardrobe. It's pretty boring. She's not really into creative dressing.

'Yeah, I do. Unfortunately. But I keep them in the spare room.'

'You actually _wear_ a sari?' Amazing. You think you know someone really well and then you find out you don't at all. I open an eye, squint at Deepthi and try to imagine her in a sari.

The smoke from her cigarette drifts up into the sunlight. 'Only on festival days,' she says. 'And only because I have to.'

'Can I see them?'

'Why?'

'I'm interested. That's all.'

'I don't get it,' Deepthi says. 'Why do you care about my bloody saris?' She stares at me. 'Corrine. I don't believe you.'

'What?' I say, defensive now.

'You want to use my saris for your GCSE.'

I don't want to talk about GCSE, and especially I don't want to talk about Textiles. Instead I stare at the leaves, dancing against the sky. Lucky plants. They don't have to sit exams. They just take in sunlight and breathe out oxygen. I wish I was a plant.

But Deepthi won't shut up. 'Corrine Peterson. I don't believe you. You haven't started that project yet, have you? Oh my God. If you don't start it…'

I didn't need her to tell me all this. I knew it all. If I don't start the project, then I sure as hell won't finish it. And that means I'll get a big fat FAIL. And Mum will spew.

'Sometimes, Corrine, I just do not get you,' says Deepthi. 'Textiles isn't Science or Maths. I mean, its not that hard.'

I wish she'd shut up. She's supposed to be a rebel and everything – look at her, skiving off school and smoking. But now she sounds just like a teacher.

But she's right, I should be good at Textiles, I mean I love sewing and I love clothes (Show me a teenage girl who doesn't. Except for Deepthi, maybe.) But when they handed out the project sheet it was like a great big hammer squashed me into my sheet.

The other girls are all drawing pictures, comparing fabric samples, happy and busy. And then there's me. Even Mrs White, not the most perceptive of teachers, is starting to notice that I'm not producing anything. She wants to talk to my parents.

I can feel the panic building. It's always this way. I start by getting worried, then my skin tenses up and then its like I'm crushed in a vice, unable to breathe. Like I can't even move. Think calm thoughts, Corrine. Blue skies. Clear oceans. I run my hand across the grass. It's cool against my hot skin. But all I can think of is FAIL, like neon flashing lights across my brain.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

'Corrine? Are you okay?'

My mouth is dry and locked into place, so its kind of hard to talk, but I try. 'Textiles is different to the other subjects, okay? It's …creative. With Maths, you just have to know things. Same as English, or Science, right? But with Textiles, you have to _imagine_.'

I push my hands into my face. It moves, and not in a good way. Oh man, I am getting hot.

'What's the project about, anyway?'

I listen to Deepthi's voice like it's the only sane place in a shifting world. 'I have to design a "fashion-forward item of clothing for a high street store, using another clothing from another culture."'

'So? That doesn't sound too hard. Just do a skirt.'

A skirt! If only. 'It's not just making something. I have to research the market. I have to design different clothes. I have to actually make something. I have to demonstrate "ethical design principles" and stuff. It's a lot of work.'

I breathe in slowly, the way Mum taught me when I was little. Breathe in, deeply, through your nose. Out through your mouth. I hope this works, because I really, really do not want to have to jump into a pond in Winslow Park.

'Are you okay?' Deepthi says.

I nod, take more deep breaths. The breeze whispers against my skin, grass prickles my legs. Traffic rumbles past and in the distance I can hear a siren wailing. I can't believe I'm getting so worked up over bloody Textiles. But it's not the subject that's the problem, not really. It's the idea of an F on my report card. I can see the comments now: _Corrine Peterson, top student, fails her GCSE!_

'Corrine?' says Deepthi.

I press my palms into the grass. It's cool against my skin. 'I'm okay.'

Deepthi looks at me carefully, as though she's thinking of saying something but then changes her mind. 'So you want to be creative with my closet?'

My lips curve upwards in a smile but inside I'm shaking. There are little circles in the grass and a faint smell of smoke. I had nearly lost it. Over my damn schooling, which is crazy. Ludicrous. I mean, its only school work, it's not the end of the world.

Deepthi pauses, like she's thinking. Then she smiles at me, a tight little grin, as though she knows I'm upset and she's prepared to help me. 'Alright. You can look at my saris.' She holds up a finger. 'Two conditions. One. If you need to sew anything, you get your own fabric.'

I nod. 'Okay.'

'Two. You don't post my clothing online. Okay? This is private.'

I don't get why she doesn't want to share this stuff, but whatever. It's her call. So I hold up one hand, as if I'm swearing in court. 'I promise. But …'

'What?'

'Can I put some photos in my assignment?'

Deepthi hesitates. 'Maybe.' She sits up, cross-legged on the grass. The sun gleams on her black hair and turns it blue. She throws the cigarette butt away and a pigeon pokes at it then lets it go. 'And don't you go telling me they're elegant or anything. It's my cultural identity, not yours.'

'Fine.' I smile at her. 'Thank you.'

I feel ashamed at my near meltdown. Really, I need to have more control. It's only Textiles, for God's sake.

Deepthi's closet – that is, the spare room's closet – is amazing. When you open the door it's like Wham! The colour just hits you. Blue, orange, red, green and they glitter, because they are embroidered with gold thread. I stroke the fabric gently. It is soft, soft as silk. 'They're beautiful! Why do you never wear them?'

Perched on the end of the spare bed, Deepthi watches me. 'They're not very practical.'

Who cares about practical, when you can wear clothes like this? 'So if they were …practical, you'd wear them?'

Deepthi shrugged. 'I guess.'

'If I could make something that was warmer, would you wear it?'

Deepthi shrugged. 'Maybe.'

She's not giving much away here. But I don't care, because suddenly I can feel the old creative juices starting to flow. Carefully, I pull some cloth from the shelf. It's green and has golden flowers embroidered on it.

Deepthi tells me that these saris were given as a gift at a festival, just as Europeans give a gift at Christmas. 'It's crazy. I only wear each one once. A bit of a waste, don't you think?'

It's weird to hear Deepthi call me 'European' as though I'm different to her.

There's not much to a sari, just a top, a skirt and a draping thing that you wrap around yourself like a big sash. I hold the sash bit up. There's a lot of fabric here. 'How do you wear them, anyway?' I try to wrap it around me. 'This doesn't look right.'

Deepthi sighs, gets off the bed. 'Here I am. Your native guide.'

'Do you know where I can get this material from?'

Deepthi shrugs out of her t-shirt, puts the sari top on. It does up down the front with little hooks and it's tight, so she has to concentrate. Her voice is muffled. 'Yeah.'

Deepthi's mother comes in, which is a shock because we thought she would be at work. She tells us that she was given the afternoon of as a celebration. Deepthi asks what celebration and she laughs and she punches her hand in the air and says "it's finally gone operational," and Deepthi nods as though she understands what this means.

Mrs Kumar works in computer security and she got headhunted by this huge mega conglomerate and she's almost never home which is why we thought we were safe going to Deepthi's house when we should be at school.

Mrs Kumar doesn't seem to notice that we are somewhere where we're not supposed to be. Instead she gets all excited to see Deepthi in a sari. It's as if her daughter had converted or something. Deepthi has to tell her to calm down, that she's just helping me with my Textiles GCSE, that she won't be permanently wearing traditional clothing.

Mentioning GCSE is a mistake though, because it's then that Mrs Kumar realises that something is Not as It Should Be. It's like you can see the penny dropping. 'Girls what are you doing here? Shouldn't you be at school?'

'Mum, it's okay,' says Deepthi in a tone that says "Mum you just don't understand anything." 'They sent us home. Because Corrine's going to do something with saris for Textiles. She'll make them more European, won't you Corrine?'

I am? Then I blink. Of course. I will.

'Is this true?' Mrs Kumar looks at me.

I nod.

'Not too European,' Mrs Kumar says.

I giver her my best Corrine Peterson: Top Student smile. 'I want to keep the draping, the fabric. They are so beautiful, Mrs Kumar.' I look at Deepthi. 'So elegant.'

Deepthi makes a face.

Mrs Kumar smiles. 'That is right. That is what I always say to Deepthi. When you wear your sari, you are truly beautiful.' She turns to Deepthi, who's making another face at her mother's back. 'Well, what are you waiting for?'

Deepthi looks confused. 'What?'

'You must take her down to Mr Patel's.'

'Mum. Are you sure that's a good idea? You know what he's like.'

'Of course it is. Go now. Before you forget.' She shakes her head. 'You girls. You say you'll do something and then you forget and poof, it's gone. No, you take her now.'

Deepthi climbs back into her T-shirt.

'And if he says anything rude,' adds Mrs Kumar, 'tell him it was I who sent you.'

'That won't work,' muttered Deepthi. 'He doesn't like you.'

'That man doesn't like anyone,' says her mother. 'But he likes money in his purse.'

She waves us out the door. She's a tiny lady, Mrs Kumar, but she always manages to get everyone doing exactly as she says. And that's when I realise: Deepthi has inherited this characteristic.

Not that I mind. I've broken through the Textile Block. I'll re-work a sari into something contemporary, something elegant. As we go down the stairs, I'm thinking: dress, skirt, shirts, pants? It's like there's a sketchbook in my head.

I hope Mrs Kumar doesn't tell Mum that I was at her house this afternoon. But its not like Mum will ask, is it? Not like she checks up on me.

'Do you have your wallet with you?' Deepthi asks.

I shake my head. 'I keep everything on my phone, remember?' I've got a special sim that works like a debit card. So unlike Deepthi, I don't have to carry around a bulky purse. It's kind of ironic that Mrs Kumar, who's so into computers, won't get Deepthi a phone like mine.

Stepping over the doorstep, I stop. 'Is the fabric expensive? My balance isn't too good right now.'

'Don't worry.' Deepthi grabs an extra large shopping bag from the rack by the door.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

As we walk up the hill I'm feeling really stupid about my meltdown in the park. I mean it's not like I'm miles behind everyone – only a few weeks. I can easily catch that up, now I've got a concept. I'm going to be perfectly calm from now on. Serene, like a stone Buddha.

It is therefore a bit of a shock when Deepthi pushes open the shop door and bang there's a Buddha staring at me.

I've been past this store a thousand times but I've never gone in - I mean, why would I? There are artificial flowers in the window and a large photo of an Indian woman, smiling a fake smile. The picture must have been there for ages because it's so faded that the woman's hair is blue and there's fly spots on her teeth.

The place smells of incense, like Deepthi's house but stronger, and there's a really fat man sitting behind the counter. He's watching an Indian movie on TV, there's lots of singing and dancing and cymbals and drums. He doesn't turn around when we come in.

'The saris are back here,' says Deepthi. We brush past racks full of bronze lamps and incense burners and models of elephants – some small, some large. There's a picture of a smiling man? Woman? Anyway, it's a lamp, and when I turn it on there's a rippling above effect above the face. Like a really really tacky nightlight.

'This,' I say, 'is cool. I want one.'

Deepthi sighs.

The store is much larger than the small front indicates, and it goes a long way back. It seems to sell everything an Indian might want – pots and pans and hair dye and, right at the back, clothing.

The saris are folded on shelves. Some of it is plain, everyday – cotton blends, in mostly dark colours – the types of saris seen a lot of in London. They're not particularly ethnic or glamorous; normally women cover up in jackets or jerseys, so the only reason you know it's a sari is the long skirt and the sash bit, hanging down the back.

But next to the common-or-garden saris are the special ones, made of brightly coloured fabric. Some are embroidered with gold thread or sequins so they glitter.

Deepthi says they're for festivals. 'You can get wedding ones, too, but they are mostly bought on-line. You don't get many brides coming in here,' and she stares back at the counter and the fat man. You can't see him from here – he's hidden behind all the shelves. All I can see is the television and the brightly-coloured happy dancers on the screen.

Here in this dusty, over-stuffed shop the saris look like butterflies which is very poetic I suppose but is a good image because they are soft, too, just like butterflies are.

We pull a few out, just to have a look at them, while Bollywood plays on the TV. The tiny speaker is screechy and it's a bit like listening to a fork running across a plate.

Deepthi doesn't mind the music. She hums along to it, while she opens the fabric up. 'You just need a pallu. If you want, you can buy the choli and petticoat another time,' she says. Turns out a choli is the top, the skirt is the petticoat, which makes sense I guess, and the big drapy bit is called a pallu.

We choose three festival pallu; one yellow, one orange and one pink. And I decide to get one in the plain fabric because then I can run mock ups. I'm thinking – this yellow one could be a tunic dress that you could wear tights underneath, and I could layer the orange and pink fabrics into a wraparound skirt, very ethnic but the layers will give more warmth.

And then I see the price. Fifty pounds for them all! 'I can't afford this,' I hiss.

'What about one?' asks Deepthi.

I touch the soft bright fabrics with one finger, like I'm saying good bye to them. 'I can get the plain one.' I can come back later and get the more expensive fabric. If Mum will help pay for them.

We lift the silks up – they're light, and because they're silk, they'll pack down small as small. Really good for travelling, I think, so I start to wonder about doing shirts and pants as well. But I only have to make one garment for GCSE, so now I'll have to decide which. And I smile to myself, because this morning I couldn't think of anything and now there's so much to choose from.

'You really should get these now,' said Deepthi. 'There's a festival coming up and they'll sell quickly.' She stands for a moment, looking down the shop – the movie is just finishing, the credits are rolling. Quickly, she stuffs the orange and pink fabric into her shopping bag. She folds up the yellow and puts it back on the shelf.

'What are you doing?' I ask.

Deepthi puts one finger to her mouth, ssh, and smiles at me, her eyes sparking. I look back along the shop, and can't see anyone.

'You go and pay for your one,' she says. 'Go on. He'll never notice. It's not like he comes down here often.'

I should tell her that shoplifting's bad I suppose but I really want this fabric and if I can get it for free, so much the better. And Deepthi's the expert – this is her place, not mine. I walk up to the counter feeling strangely conspicuous. This is an Indian shop and my skin is white and my hair is brown and I don't fit in.

There's no one behind the counter. The fat man has disappeared, probably heading into the poky, messy office behind the curtain. Deepthi and I are now the only living breathing things in this over-stuffed smelly shop. Beside the counter the smiling Buddha seems to mock me. Serene, I think. Serene.

The news starts on the TV. A man in a suit stares out at us. Behind him is a big eye, which seems to follow Deepthi and me around the shop. I'm becoming paranoid.

'In a world first,' says the newsreader, 'the eyeLondon Project has been activated. The Police applaud this action, saying London will now be one of the safest places in the world. While Human Rights organisations fear that the eyeLondon facial recognition system will further erode the rights of members of the public.'

While the newsreader is talking, the fat man comes back into the shop and perches on a stool behind the counter. His skin is grey-olive and he's breathing heavily, as though the effort of walking through the curtained door is too much for him. His skin is shiny, as if he's sweating.

This must be Mr Patel. 'What do you want?' he asks.

Behind me, Deepthi sidles towards the door. She's carrying her shopping bag on her far side, so Mr Patel can't see that there's something in it. My hands feel dry.

'Um, I want to get this.' I hand him the lengths of fabric.

'Hmm,' he wheezes. 'European girl, buying sari fabric. What do you want it for?'

'My school work,' I say.

The TV is so loud that it sounds as though there's another person in the store, shouting through a megaphone. 'The eyeLondon Project links all public and private security cameras within the Greater London Region with facial recognition technology, allowing the police to track potential terrorists and known criminals.'

Grunting, Mr Patel switches the television off. He takes the blue-and-black cotton and wraps it in brown paper. When Deepthi leaves the shop – the door tinkles – he barely raises his head. I breathe out.

'Five pounds,' he says.

I wave my phone on the machine. Sometimes when I do this I feel like I'm a magician casting a spell, but not today. Today I'm freaking out. What if Deepthi gets caught?

But Mr Patel says nothing, just hands me the receipt and the package of fabric. I turn to go, put my hand on the sticky handle of the door, and he says 'Just a moment.'

I feel my heart beating. What does he want? I try and look as innocent as I can and I stare back at him, trying not to be too rabbit-in-the-headlights.

'Your friend. That's Deepthi Kumar, isn't it?'

I nod.

Mr Patel smiles. I wish he wouldn't. He's not exactly the most lovely looking character in the world and right now he seems to be filling up my vision.

Then he says 'Can you call her back in, please?'

I think about running, but then I think, no he might only want to say Hello, although I doubt this from what Mrs Kumar had said about him.

'Why?' I ask.

He gives me a very direct look. 'Do you really think,' he says, 'that I am so foolish? That I do not keep an eye on my own store?' He lifts his head, so all his chins sag, and looks down the shop at the camera attached to the roof, just above the fabric aisle.

'If you call Miss Kurmar in,' he says, 'then we can settle this between us. Otherwise,' and he stretches out a hand for the telephone. His fingers look like breakfast sausages. 'I will call the police.'


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

My face is flaming now. I can feel the colour creeping up my neck, into my chin, across my cheeks. My pulse is racing, thump-thump, thump-thump. I must look like a great red traffic light. Calm, Corrine, calm, I think to myself.

Mr Patel smiles slimily and says, 'Would you prefer me to call the police?'

I open my mouth to say 'Why, what will you do with her?' because if it was me, I think I'd prefer the police to this man with his sweaty face and sausage fingers, but its too late because Deepthi pushes open the door.

'Corrine,' she says crossly. 'You're taking ages. What's wrong?'

Then she sees my red face and Mr Patel, looming large across his counter. Her eyes go round but she doesn't say anything, she just clutches her bag full of stolen fabric worth forty-five pounds to her chest.

Mr Patel gets off his stool and comes out from around the counter. He moves quietly, like a snake stalking its prey. He's wearing a loose top and a sarong that's partly falling down so his belly hangs over the top of it. He smells musty, like a partially blocked drain.

'Miss Kumar,' he says. 'What did I say to you last time you came in here?'

Deepthi stares at him. I feel like I can't breathe. It's like in the park, but much much worse because I'm not lying on soft grass and staring up at summer leaves. And somehow I know something bad is going to happen. Deepthi's eyes are filling with water, and as I watch, a tear slides down her cheek.

Mr Patel reaches out with one sausage finger and touches the tear. 'Now now,' he says, and puts his wet fingertip to his mouth. 'Don't cry. I'm sure we can come to some … arrangement.'

I stare at Mr Patel, thinking Oh my God that is so gross. And then I think: what does he mean? Then he reaches out and takes Deepthi by the shoulders. She says nothing. But he's getting way, way too close.

You learn this early in life. There's appropriate closeness – that's relatives and friends – and then there's inappropriate. That's when people who are not a) not related and b) sleazey invade your personal space. Mr Patel fits both categories and he's definitely getting uncomfortably close to Deepthi's.

Deepthi stares at the ground, as if trying to avoid Mr Patel and his presence, and I'm standing there thinking 'Oh my God, this can't be happening.' It's like the moment's stilled in time. And all the time my heart goes thump-thump, faster and faster. And then I feel it: the heat rising, rising.

'Please,' says Deepthi softly – I don't know if she's talking to me, or to Mr Patel.

But Mr Patel smiles and leans even closer to Deepthi. 'Don't worry, my dear. Everything will be fine.' Then he reaches out and takes the bag of fabric from her hands. Then he passes it to me. Automatically, my hand reaches out and I take it.

'You can go,' he says to me, but he keeps staring at Deepthi. 'Deepthi and I have something to discuss now, don't we dear?'

Deepthi says nothing.

'Leave her alone!' I say.

'Corrine,' says Deepthi. I can tell what she's thinking – I don't want Mum to know, I don't want to get found out, I don't want to go to jail, please don't make it worse. But mostly she's thinking GET ME THE HELL OUT OF HERE.

Suddenly, instead of feeling scared, I am angry. What the fuck is that gross man doing? How dare he? Deepthi's my friend, for fuck's sake. Its like there's another voice in my head; a furious, powerful Corrine. My muscles grip like they're in a vice, so tight I can hardly breathe. All I can see is heat and fire and red hot flames. My face is shifting, changing and my palms are warming, warming. The anger is breaking loose, locking into my guts and my brain.

'Leave her alone!' I'm shouting loudly, like I'm yelling into a gale.

Mr Patel turns to me, a look of mild surprise on his face as if he's doing nothing wrong by holding a sixteen year old girl by the shoulders and licking her tears off her fingers. And his look of fake innocence is just too much and I feel my own face twist with anger. And then his smile changes, as if he can't quite believe what he's seeing.

But he doesn't let go of Deepthi. He pulls her closer towards him, almost touching her with the bare skin of his belly, like he's _daring_ me to do something. She leans away from him, turning her head and shutting her eyes, as if by closing her eyes he would disappear.

His oily skin gleams. 'But Miss Kumar and I have an understanding. The last time I caught her lovely little hands stealing my stock, I warned her. Didn't I, Miss Kumar? I told you I would demand payment of you.'

And he puts a fat hand on Deepthi's waist and pulls her close to him and Deepthi cries out 'no!' and puts her arms up but he's too big and fat and he doesn't care what she thinks at all, he just squeezes himself into her, pressing her against the doorway and against him.

For all he cares I'm part of the furniture. Or maybe he's forgotten about me.

Deepthi's crying now, really crying.

The shop seems to shimmer and all I can feel is the burn.

When the anger hits there's only two things I can do. Either I can get into cold water and think calm thoughts, serene thoughts, until finally it passes and I am safe again. But there's no water here, and really I don't want to get all serene and calm.

Or I can do something I've not done since I was a kid. I can ride the anger, let it free. Let the fire out.

And that's what I do.

Leaning forward, I push Mr Patel, hard, hard. It's like I'm throwing my weight against a locked door. He staggers and lets go of Deepthi and she lurches sideways, away from him. And then I put my hand on his chest and shove him again. My body is rigid, like an iron bar; it's my whole weight that I use.

'Get away!' I'm screaming, but I can hardly hear myself, because all I can hear is the roar of the fire growing, growing.

And he's staring at me, like he can't believe what's happening, and for a moment I wonder - what is he seeing? What do I look like, when the fire comes? And that's the last lucid thought I have, because the heat takes me and everything turns black.

'Corrine,' Deepthi says. 'Corrine!'

And then there's nothing at all.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

My palms are aching, beating in a dull steady throb. There's a silver foil packet of tablets, a jug of water and a glass on the bedside table and, wrapped in white bandages, my hands look like paws. For a moment, I think I'm in hospital, but no, above me is the skylight of my bedroom. It's dark outside, but I can see the moon, sailing high above silver-rimmed clouds. I like my room, and I especially like this skylight, even though the moonlight sometimes wakes me up.

'Corrine. How do you feel?'

Dad's sitting in my tiny chair, the chair I keep purely as a rack for my clothes. It's way too small for him – his knees are up against his chin. There's a e-reader open on his chest. It lets off a blue light that reflects onto his glasses and makes his eyes opaque. What has happened? I have a vague memory of being helped down the road, of smoke and sirens and Deepthi hammering on the front door. And my mother's face. She didn't look too happy. After that everything's pretty hazy.

I lick my lips, swallow. My throat's sore. Deep breath, Corrine, I think. You are in your bed. You are safe. The growing howls from downstairs make it hard to relax.

Jamie pushes open the door, sending a line of light into my room. 'Dad! You have to help! The twins won't go to bed.'

With the door open the shrieks are louder.

Dad makes a face and sighs. 'Jamie. I left you in charge.'

'They never listen to me,' says Jamie.

Dad folds the e-reader, just like a book, and the blue light vanishes. That was weird. I've never seen an e-reader that you could fold.

Techno-freak Jamie is intrigued. 'What's that?'

'A hologram projector,' says Dad.

'Can I see it?' Jamie asks. He appears totally oblivious to the fact that he is in _my_ room. But I decide to ignore this annoyance because I am into being serene and calm and there's no point in getting cross with a younger brother because otherwise I would do nothing else all day. And anyway, there's enough annoyance in this house; downstairs, Bailey and Andrea are yelling.

'No,' says Dad, holding it away from Jamie. 'It's a prototype and you are not to get your grubby paws on it.'

'Can _I _see it?' I say in an I-am-very-ill voice and Dad sighs and puts it on the bed. The light from the hallway shines onto what seems to be a suede-covered book, although there's little jack points built into one side, which isn't something I've ever seen on a book.

Bailey is screaming hard now, saying something about Andrea stealing her doll, and there's a worrying repetitive banging. Hopefully it's just a toy hitting the furniture but you never know with the twins. Although they've never actually set anything alight. Yet. Not like me.

Then Dad opens the covers and it's like the most amazing pop-up book ever! A tiny, bumpy, spiral staircase seems to step out of the screen. It glows with a light that's so blue it's like looking into an Antarctic crevasse.

'That's a DNA molecule,' says Dad, touching the tiny staircase gently with one finger. 'I was looking at one of the brain receptors. See?' and he pinches with his fingers, squishing the thing down so it dwindles into something smaller and smaller, collapsing into a tiny x. Then he opens his fingers, and it grows again, following his fingers up and up, until it looks like the most complex molecule that we've ever built in Chemistry.

'Cool!' says Jamie. He's good at ignoring the twins. 'Can you turn it around?'

Dad makes a circle movement and the molecule spins, following his finger, so we can see it from another angle.

The girls are getting louder. 'Um, Dad,' I say, and nod my head at the door.

Dad sighs, folds up the pop-up book. The fairy-like glow fades. He goes downstairs, thump thump, and then we can hear him trying to intervene in the latest doll-owning drama.


	6. Chapter 6

**Due to a technical issue (that is, I have returned to DIAL-UP speed because I have blasted our data allowance) further episodes will be delayed until normal data speed is restored.**

******The next instalment will be loaded after the 21 of the month. But do stay tuned...**

**To quote British Rail: we apologise for the inconvenience**

**Chapter Six**

It's like this every night, you'd think the twins would learn, but no. About seven-thirty, they pick a fight with each other. Normally they're not too bad, and can be separated with a good strong grip but tonight they'd obviously been left on their own for too long, because they'd built up a fair head of steam and now there's plenty of screaming.

I put my head back on my pillow. It's actually good to be in bed. And way better than having to intervene in a toddler argument. 'Is Mum at work?'

Jamie nods. 'She bandaged you up.'

I looked at my paw hands. Mum's used tape and white gauze and they look tidy. Very nice and clean. I try not to feel hurt that she's not here. I mean, what sort of mother would disappear off to work when her daughter's been injured? But Mum's a nurse at the John Wickliffe Emergency Department which means that a) night shift will be busy and b) no family member can ever, ever be as sick as the drunken cretins that appear at ED and c) they will be short staffed. Mum finds it impossible to get time off, or so she says. Sometimes I wonder if that's an excuse, because working the evening shift means she avoids bed-time dramas. Personally, I feel that putting up with drunken idiots would be way easier than dealing with Bailey and Olivia.

Downstairs, the screaming is reducing. It's hard to know if this means the girls are actually going to sleep or if Dad has just closed all the doors and muffled the sound. But either way, the quietness is so welcome that both Jamie and I stare at each other and say nothing at all for fully thirty seconds.

'So what happened?' Jamie asks. 'There's all this smoke and stuff up the road and then Deepthi appears with her arm around you, almost carrying you. It was like something out of a movie. Pretty impressive, if you ask me. You want to see the photos?'

'You took photos?'

'Course.'

A definition of brother: No sense of what is private and what isn't. 'You didn't put them on your blog?' My voice is hoarse and my throat is sore, as though I've got a cold.

He shook his head. 'Not yet.'

'Well don't.'

He looks at me for a moment, and then he's serious. 'What did happen, Cor?'

'I don't know.' I don't want to talk about it. I don't want to even think about Mr Patel and Deepthi, because then I wonder would have happened to her if I hadn't been there? But she was only there because of me and so this makes it ALL MY FAULT.

'You didn't start it?'

I know what he means by 'it'. He means the fire.

I shrug.

Jamie stares at me, silently.

'Go away,' I say to him, miserable.

Jamie ignores me. 'Mum gave you something to help you sleep. Mum told Dad to sit up here, keep an eye on you.'

Better to have Mum look after me. Doctors don't understand this condition. That's what my family and I have: "a condition." Which is pretty euphemistic, if you ask me.

'Is Deepthi okay?' I ask.

'She was dragging you along the road. She's pretty strong. So yeah, she's probably fine. Course, I'm not sure about the shop owner.'

'What about him?'

Jamie shrugged. 'He's probably toast. _Burnt_ toast.'

I stare at my brother as he tells me, quite casually, that I've just killed someone. Not that the world will mourn the end of Mr Patel, let's face it, but somehow I can't believe that I could actually reach out and set fire to someone.

Mum used white tape to bandage my hands, so they are all clean-looking, kind of innocent. Like the hands of a big cute polar bear. But polar bears live by killing seals and I wonder, suddenly, just what my hands are capable of.

'Do you mean?' I try to swallow, but my throat feels like there's a great big lump inside it. 'That he's _dead_?'

Jamie shrugs. 'I guess. The police came. But Mum told them to come back later, when you were "conscious"' He makes quote marks with his fingers.

Usually I am jealous of Jamie's ability to remain calm under pressure; it would sure make my life a lot easier. But this evening his placidity seems more than a little bizarre. It cannot be normal to be so matter-of-fact about your sister setting fire to something and being wanted for murder.

Then what he's said sinks in. 'The Police?'

Can this day get any worse? I've set fire to a shop. Burnt my hands. Killed a man. The police are after me.

'And Gran phoned. She's coming tomorrow.'

Oh. My. God. Obviously, it can.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven:**

Gran is a force of nature. She talks in short bursts, like the staccato of a machine gun and like most old people, has white hair. She also has a bad habit of wearing trousers that are a bit tight for her figure, not that I'd ever say that to her face, not unless I had a death wish. But it's her eyes you notice. They're intense blue, as blue as the sky and so bright that it's hard to look away from her gaze. She's spooky.

Our English teacher was talking about the "crone archetype" and then started waffling on about witches and how they were really just strange old women who had a thing for Nature and cats and were possibly over-fond of sweeping.

But I think witches do exist, and they don't do spells or stuff; they just have to _look_ at you to know exactly what you are thinking. And then they tell you to do something, not in a mean way, just a firm way and bam, you're doing it. To me, that is what a witch is. And if you take that definition and run with it, then my Gran is a witch. Every time I see her I have this urge to cross myself, even though I'm not at all catholic.

She is not a relaxing person to have around.

Gran is actually my great-gran; she's Mum's grandmother. Mum's parents died in a car accident when she was pretty small, so she went to live with Gran when she was about three or four. Mum says she doesn't really remember her mother, who was called Daisy, or her father Tom, but she has a photo of them by her bed so I guess there must be a connection at some level.

She lives in a crumbling old cottage in Devon, miles away from anything. We all hate visiting her and now there's are four of us kids, it's easier to suggest to the parents that because there's no room in her house, and no computer, maybe we shouldn't to do the boring drive down to Devon.

Family is all very well I guess, but who wants a witchy old lady staring at you and guessing all your innermost thoughts? Besides, if there's one county in England that is seriously boring, its Devon – or at least, the part of Devon where Gran lives. She's miles from the beaches and Dartmoor is always wet and soggy. There's plenty of other places in the world that are better.

Because Gran seems to think the internet is evil, she refuses to have a computer in her house. As long as I'm not visiting, this is okay – it's not as though I want to Skype or Facetime her or anything - but it is a little inconvenient for Mum, who would like to be able to email her through photos of the Twins. Personally, I think Gran is better off not seeing photos of those girls, but it annoys Mum that she can't share them.

Gran tells her that she can always print the photos and send them to her the old-fashioned way, but Mum sighs and says she really doesn't have time in her life right now to run around getting photos printed.

So instead Mum calls Gran every Sunday night at 7.00 - she doesn't work that night – and talks to her for ages about all our boring goings on. Sunday night is the one night of the week the twins don't play up when going to bed. They're scared of Gran, too, even though she lives hundreds of miles away.

'Why is _she_ coming?'

Jamie seems surprised that I have to ask this question. 'To look after you.'

'Me?'

'Well,' he gestures at my bandaged hands. 'You can't do much like that.'

I stare at him, trying to work this out. Thinking of all the things I use my hands for. Writing. Dressing. Oh my God. Going to the toilet. I shake my head frantically on the pillow, no, no, no.

Jamie watches me with interest, as if I was a specimen at the zoo. 'What's wrong?'

I just groan.

Dad comes back up the stairs and flops down into my chair, his knees around his chin. 'All good, thank goodness.' He looks at me. I'm still groaning, and turns to Jamie. 'What's up with her?'

'Gran,' says Jamie.

'Oh,' says Dad, sympathetically. He shares my fear of Gran. 'Right.' He looks at me for a moment, his glasses reflecting the light from the door. 'You want to talk about what happened today?'

I shake my head again. Talking about it might bring back the feeling of being out of control and I really do not want to pull that particular genie out of its bottle.

'Did Jamie tell you that the Police came by?'

I nod.

'Well, you'll have to talk to them, you know. Best you share it first with us, don't you think?'

No. Not ready. Not yet.

Dad watches me silently for a moment. Jamie yawns and, probably realising that there's nothing here of interest, heads downstairs. Dad sighs, opens up his magic screen, and starts poking at the DNA molecule again.

'What are you doing?'

'The condition that you have,' Dad says, 'is called what?'

'Malignant hyperpyrexia,' I say, parroting what I've heard a thousand times.

'Which means what, exactly?'

'It means I can get very hot, very fast.'

He nods. 'This family has a very rare variant of the hyperpyrexia gene.' He pokes at the molecule, making it bigger and bigger, until I can see right between the rungs of the stairs. 'You can see it here.'

'Why is it so rare?'

'I'm not sure,' he says. 'It might be selected out. It seems likely, doesn't it, that people who start fires are unlikely to survive to reproduce, doesn't it?'

'I guess.' But Gran's got the Condition. And she must be at least one hundred, so I'm not sure that this is entirely true. But then – Dad's parents are dead. Mum's parents are dead. Accidents, so Mum says. But were they really?

'Are you thirsty?' says Dad.

He's a genetics Professor; he lives in a world of long words and complex sentences. Talking with Dad can feel like communicating with an encyclopaedia. I'm not planning on discussing mortality options with him. Not now, not when I feel so grotty.

'Um, yeah.'

He reaches over to the table beside my bed, takes the cup of water and places it against my lips. I try to swallow, but most of the water goes down my front. 'I'll get you a straw when I go downstairs,' says Dad.

This is what Gran will to for me. Hand me things. Feed me. Dress me. 'Does she really need to come?'

He nods. 'Mum and I have to go to work, Corrine. And you'll need help. Now, do you need anything for the pain?'

I shrug but my hands are throbbing and he must be able to see from my face that I'm not exactly telling the truth, so he pops a couple of tablets out from the foil packet on the bedside table, puts them on my tongue and pours more water into my mouth. We manage better this time and I stay reasonably dry.

'Go to sleep, Corrine,' he says. 'I'll be in the study, so if you need me just call. Okay?'

'Dad?'

He turns at the door, his body silhouetted in the light. 'Yes?'

'What happened to Mr Patel?'

He hesitates. 'The shopkeeper?'

'Is he … dead?'

'Not as far as I know,' he says lightly. He looks at me for a moment as if trying to work out what to tell me. 'Deepthi said you saved her?'

He seems to be waiting for me to reply, what can I say? I might have saved her, but since it was my fault she was there in the first place I can't take any credit. But Dad smiles, as if my silence was his answer. 'Well done, Corrine. We're proud of you.'

Then he steps out of my room and closes the door so all I can see is a narrow slit of light around its edge.

I lie in the dark. Tears prick my eyes and with my stupid bandaged hands I can't even wipe them away. I try to think of cool water running over stones and soft music and waves crashing over a beach of white sand. Well done, Dad said. But I don't think I did well at all; I can never ever do well. Sometimes it feels that everything I touch goes wrong.


	8. Chapter 8

**Sorry for the massive delay - But now, because I'm back on Broadband, hopefully there won't be too many breaks from now on :)**

**Chapter Eight**

Milky-grey sunlight wakes me from the Worst Dream in the World. It's not really a nightmare, but its pretty weird and I've had before, many times. In my dream I spin round and round like a sock in a tumble dryer. People talk about having dreams of walking naked through a crowd or falling from a tall building, but to me it's the uncontrolled spin of a drying sock.

I lie still under the sheets, blinking at the day and its really really nice that the world is not moving like it was in my dream. The clock on the wall says eight o'clock. My panda hands rest on the duvet and they match the pale blue coverlet and white cotton sheets so that's a nice feeling, that my room and my bandages are so colour co-ordinated. This is a bit shallow, I suppose, but still. One has to take pleasure in the small things, like having dressings that complement your bedroom.

Of course it doesn't take long for reality to hit. The first: howling from downstairs. Olivia and Bailey are awake. The second: I need to pee. Badly. I clamber from the bed, keeping my palms free of the sheets. It's like doing a weird kind of yoga.

The walls in the stairway are painted china blue so when I step out of my room it feels as though I'm walking into the clouds. I can't hold onto the stair rail, so I run an elbow along the wall to help steady me as I go downstairs. It's strange to be so cautious; I am moving like an old woman. I feel kind of woozy. Probably the after-effects of the painkillers. Don't worry, Corrine, it will pass.

Dad is trying to persuade the twins that pink does not have to be the Colour of the Day. I don't know why he bothers. To the twins, a day without pink is a day not lived. Maybe I was like that once.

The toilet door is open, so fortunately I do not have to try and turn the handle because that would be a massive task right now. I go into the loo with a sense of urgency and the happy knowledge that soon, I will feel relief. The white ceramic of the toilet stairs up at me like an open eye; I feel like sobbing. How pathetic! But I had done so well: climbed out of bed, got myself downstairs. And now, I'm here in the toilet and desperate to wee, and I cannot pull my pants down. Aargh!

This is a very bad feeling.

At least I am not heating up with the tension. Maybe it's the drugs keeping me calm, but probably it's the knowledge that not being able to remove my pants is not exactly the end of the world. I guess it's good that I have a sense of proportion, but really what I would like is a good firm grip.

'Corrine?' Mum's in the doorway, her hair all wild with sleep.

'Sorry,' I say, 'I didn't mean to wake you.'

'You want the toilet?'

I nod, miserably and humilately (if that's not a word, it ought to be) and she smiles slightly and steps into the loo with me, so there's two of us squashed in together in a tiny space. It's nice to have her close, even in this sort of circumstance.

'Thank you,' I say.

'Think nothing of it,' she says. 'I'm a professional.'

I suppose that this is what nurses do, beside restraining drunks in ED and administering enemas.

It's a relief to go, even with my mother standing there, watching me. And I don't need to wash my hands afterwards.

'Do you need a hand up the stairs?' she says. Her voice is kind of muffled, like she's still half asleep. She works until midnight and gets home about one in the morning, so eight am is the middle of the night to her.

'I'm okay,' I say. 'Thanks for bandaging me.'

She smiles sleepily and shuts her bedroom door. It's a panel door, made of unbleached pine.

I stagger back up the stairs. For some reason going up is easier than coming down.

There are two windows in my room. A skylight, that stares up into the clouds and a sash window that should slide up and down but doesn't, because someone painted over it. It overlooks the street and it's very handy because through it I can tell all sorts of things, like what is the weather and which way is the wind blowing and is there anyone on the street that I do NOT want to run into. There are quite a few (mostly males) in our neighbourhood that fit this criteria.

I peer through the gap in the curtains, because of course with my hands I can't pull them back. As it's early on a Saturday morning the street is empty of pedestrians, annoying or otherwise. The day is partly cloudy and there is no wind so it should fine up later. What should I wear? I have no clothes that I can get into unaided, so I could stay in my pyjamas. There are some girls who would come to school in their PJs if they weren't forced to wear a school uniform, but I am NOT one of them. I like my clothes.

There's a movement outside; a cab pulls up. It's plain black without any advertisements on it at all. I would like to take a photo of it, as proof that not all cab drivers have succumbed to commercialism, but I can't operate my phone with my hands bandaged. There's two men in the back, and after a time this gets to me, because who takes a cab and doesn't get out of it? Hackneys are expensive. I know they're an institution and their drivers don't need satnavs because they've got the Knowledge in their brains – but they cost a fortune to use and so if my friends and me use a cab, we call a minicab.

Now and again the passengers look around, casual-like, as if they're waiting for something or someone. And as I watch I realise, very slowly, that what these men are looking at is our house. Not that its obvious, oh no, because like most of London we live in a Terrace, but the glances seem to keep coming this way very frequently. What are they doing here? Are they waiting for someone?

Jamie barges in. 'Breakfast is ready.'

'I'm busy.'

'What are you looking at?' My nosey-parker brother goes to the window.

'Wait!' I put out an arm to stop him pulling back the drapes. 'See that cab?'

He nods.

'It's been there for,' – I look at my clock – 'nearly five minutes with these men inside it. Don't you think it's weird?'

Jamie peeps out and says nothing for a few seconds. He's checking that what I'm saying is right, which is annoying because its like he doesn't trust what I tell him, because I'm just a girl and what would I know. But I'm used to this so I don't get annoyed; I'm resigned to a twelve-year old questioning my judgement although once, just once it would be nice to have him say "wow Corrine you are so smart and clever."

Finally Jamie states the obvious. 'There are men inside it. And they're looking at our house.'

I nod.

'They've got radios. Or phones. They're talking into something, anyway,' he says.

'They are? Let me see.'

Reluctantly he moves aside and I peep through the slit between the drapes. He's right. Maybe. Or perhaps one of the men has something else in his hand, like, I don't know, a comb or something and felt an urgent need for grooming coming on.

'Go and get the binoculars,' I say.

'Why me? Why can't you go?'

I hold up my hands as living proof that I'm not putting on poor little Jamie and he sighs and thuds downstairs. I speculate on who these men are – I think they're men, because there's some indefinable angle to their necks and heads that makes me think 'male' - but I can't really see them that clearly, so it's possible they're female.

Jamie pants his way upstairs and presses the binos to the curtains. There's a long pause. I bet he's gone into surveillance mode, thinking he's some kind of private eye or special ops soldier. Jamie spends way too much time on his computer.

'Yeah,' he says. 'They do have some sort of comms device. Something they're talking into, anyway, I don't know if its radio or cell.'

The police were here yesterday. Could they be in the cab? But I doubt this because it doesn't match what I've seen on TV, which is namely that a) the police are always short of funds so using cabs to conduct surveillance seems unlikely and b) the police would just knock on the door. I mean, what are they going to learn from sitting there, staring at our house?

Maybe the same thought occurs to the men in the cab, or maybe they realised that whoever they were meeting was not coming, or maybe they'd finished their drug deal, or... Whatever. Anyway, the cab starts up, pulls away from the curb.

Jamie dives for my phone and takes some quick snaps of the fat rear end of the car. Oh we'll done, Jamie, quick thinking, not that I'll say that to him.

'Did you get it?'

We check the screen together, heads pressed closer than we'd normally ever be. The shots are a bit fuzzy and there's the cream edge of the curtains in the image but still, there's the cab and when Jamie zooms in, we can see the number plate loud and clear.

'Awesome,' he mutters and I grin at him and we might have high fived except my paw hands kind of make that tricky.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine:**

Our zone of good feeling is destroyed by a tiny voice.

'Don't you want breakfast?' It's Bailey, her hand on the doorframe looking deceptively angelic. Her two pigtails stick out from the side of her head like little horns, which is a pretty apt piece of hairdressing from Dad.

'You're not allowed up here,' says Jamie.

She pouts. 'Dad told me to come and get you.'

Jamie appears to be considering if a parental directive carries greater weight than the Rules of Toddler Access which are basically: "you are not allowed on the top floor". These rules are such a waste of time - the twins see coming them as a challenge, not a command, and they attempt entrance several times a week, manufacturing elaborate excuses for their presence. I just go with it. Arguing with a four year old is a futile undertaking. 'Okay,' I say to Bailey, 'we're coming.'

She stands there, staring at my face, then my hands. 'What's that?'

'I hurt my hands.'

She considers this for a moment and then asks the W question. 'Why?'

Jamie groans.

'Because I was cross. Can you help me down the stairs?' I say.

She nods, very seriously.

'You have to go first,' I say.

She walks down the stairs, slowly and carefully and I am very pleased to have her there, because worst case and I slip, there will be something to break my fall. Not that I'm planning on crushing my four year old sister, but hey, having someone in front of me is a lot better than the empty space of the stairwell.

'I like your skirt,' I tell her. It's a four year old's fantasy; pink satin with silver and pink sequins. Bailey smiles at me.

Behind us, Jamie thuds like an elephant. He prefers to parkour - this step-by-step movement of Bailey's will be annoying him. I go slower, just to make his agony worse and he mutters. We go slowly, at a careful-four-year-old speed past Mum and Dad's room and Jamie's computer-and-clothes infested territory.

Then it's the pink-and-purple twin's room and on to the next set of stairs. These are not as steep as the top ones but because there's no skylight above they feel a lot darker. It's good to have little Bailey's silver sequins to guide me. Bailey seems to be taking the idea of helping me very seriously - she's quiet and solemn and keeps looking back at me, like she's checking that I'm okay. It's kind of sweet.

Dad's got breakfast on the table. Olivia's sitting there, waiting. She loves her food.

'Hey, Corrine,' she says brightly. She's got the same skirt on as Bailey. The twins like matching.

'Hey.'

Breakfast is foul. The food is okay I suppose, I mean cereal and toast is pretty unremarkable. It's just that my paw hands cannot grip a spoon and so Dad has to feed me which is so totally humiliating I wish I could just curl up and die. The girls stare at me over the tops of their spoons, as though I'm an animal at the zoo. Big Sister Corrine, having to be fed like a baby.

'What time is the train?' It's Mum, leaning on the doorframe. Her hair is still sleep tousled but her eyes are awake.

'Twelve o'clock, says Dad.

'We'll take the car?' She says.

He nods and I groan. I hate our car. It's one of those people movers, that looks like a little bus. All my friends have hybrid or electric but not us; we drive petrol. Which is so environmentally unfriendly it's embarrassing. Plus, it's seriously ugly.

'Jim's sending his grandson with her,' says mum.

'Why?' Says Dad.

Mum goes into the kitchen, pours cereal into a bowl. 'To keep her company, she said.'

'Mum,' I say, 'how long is Gran going to stay for?'

Mum sits down at the table. 'I don't know, Corrine. As long as she needs to.'

Jamie mentions the cab but Mum and Dad are not particularly fascinated to hear that there was a cab in our street. This response is sensible and adult I suppose but a little lacking in excitement; I mean, why couldn't they understand that an unmarked black cab is nearly the same as an unmarked van? Jamie appears to feel the same; he rolls his eyes and announces that he got a photo of the cab on my phone does Dad want to see it? Dad shakes his head, no thanks Jamie.

After breakfast I have to go to the toilet again. I won't go into details because its pretty gross but suffice to say it was really really revolting and leaves me feeling sick.

'How long will I have these bandages on, Mum?'

She snaps off her latex gloves. Latex gloves! I really cannot handle this for much longer.

'As long as it takes, Corrine.'

That's not much help.

Paddington Station is its usual chaos; announcements echoing from the iron arches, the clattering wings of pigeons and lots of people trailing suitcases. They wander randomly, in individuals and small groups, and Jamie has a good time trying to spot the pickpockets. Today he's disappointed; there are none.

'Maybe they don't work weekends,' I say.

He glares at me. 'Are you stupid? It's that i - London.'

'The what?'

He shakes his head. 'Do you live under a rock? Look! Up there!' He points at a security camera. There's an eye painted on the side of it.

Security cameras are like cabs. There are thousands in London but I never notice them; they're just there, like the scenery or the weather, so it's weird to have one pointed out to me. It's like pointing out the cracks in the pavement. This one is rotating slowly, which is strange because they normally just hang motionless.

'Why does it have an eye on it?' I ask.

'It's really cool!' Jamie says enthusiastically. 'Facial recognition; it can recognise faces. It links with smart phones and stuff.'

I don't know why Jamie gets so excited over technology. If he was talking about clothes, like a computer system for making predictions for clothing trends, now that would be of interest. But a camera that can recognise faces? I mean, please! I can do that.

Mum's looking upwards at the cameras. 'I'd forgotten about eyeLondon,' she says. 'Gran won't like that.'

'Doesn't she like being on camera?' I ask. If I was old I wouldn't like to be photographed.

'There's an Accessories,' says Dad, pointing. 'You could get her a hat as a disguise.'

I think he's joking until I see Mum's face; she's nodding, as though she thinks this is a good idea.

'I'll go,' I say. Accessories is not my favourite store, but if Mum's making a clothes-purchasing decision I want to be there because really, she has no clue about style or colour.

'Me too,' says Bailey.

'And me!' yells Olivia.

'Why do you want to come? They don't do pink clothes,' I say.

The twins look surprised and then angry that a clothes-buying expedition is being denied them. Their little bottom lips quiver. Mum glares at me, as though it's my fault the girls are on the cusp of a tantrum.

'Well, sorry,' I say. It's not like I meant to upset the little darlings.

'I don't know if a hat will work,' says Jamie. The camera is still slowly turning, its eye watching us. 'Sunglasses might be better.'

Mum sighs. 'We'll all go.'

We pick out sunglasses with reflective lens – very aviator style that would look good on a fighter pilot, not an old woman, but Jamie persuades Mum that they are the best for foiling the cameras. And a big floppy-brimmed hat that will cast a shadow and make it hard for the tech to work. Jamie burbles away happily about 3-D recognition and algorithms and Artificial Intelligence and Mum nods at regular intervals 'ah-ha' and the twins and I wander off to try on hats.

'Mum,' I say, 'can I get this?'

It's a cool little fedora, bright red, very now.

'Do you have your phone on you?'

Well of course I don't. How can I carry it? I hold up my bandaged hands as an excuse and hope she doesn't ask what my balance is because Mr Patel's shop nearly cleaned me out. Mr Patel. And with that thought comes a wave of…something. Sickness? Horror? Anger?

Dad's staring at me, like he's seeing what I'm thinking. 'I'll get it,' he says.

'Can I get something, too?' says Bailey.

'And me? And me?' says Olivia.

Dad sighs.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten:**

Gran's train is ten minutes late, which is fortunate because it gives Mum time to bribe the girls and Jamie with sweets. So we're all a happy smiling family by the time the train arrives, and there's only the occasional hiccup from Bailey.

'There she is,' says Mum. 'Oh.'

Gran's wearing big sunglasses, very late-Jackie Onassis, and a big floppy hat. She's got on a sort of cape, too, that swirls as she walks and she's carrying a cane that she obviously doesn't need because she swings it vigorously, not leaning on it at all. Our idea of getting her a disguise was unnecessary. But at least I've got my hat.

'You have to hand it to her,' says Dad, quietly. 'The old duck has _style_.'

But I'm thinking there's a fine, fine line between style and eccentricity and I'm not sure that Gran hasn't crossed it.

'Diane, daarrling!' She kisses Mum enthusiastically on each cheek – Mwwm, Mwwm. 'How lovely. And what beautiful girls!' She pauses, and looks down at Olivia and Bailey, who stare up at her, their eyes wide. 'You are…' she asks Bailey, but Bailey hides behind Mum's legs and refuses to come out.

Olivia is braver. 'I'm Olivia.'

'How wonderful,' says Gran and pats her on the head. Then she turns to me in a way I find slightly disturbing, or maybe it's just that her red lipstick has bled slightly into her mouth creases which creates a dawn-of-the-living-dead look. 'Corrine!' she says and hugs me, her stick hanging from one hand. I keep myself stiff, what do I do, hug this mad old woman back? And she lets go, steps away from me and says 'My, you have grown. And _what_ a fetching hat.'

Why do old people always seem surprised that you've grown? I mean, isn't it what you're supposed to do?

'Hello Gran,' says Dad, 'How was your trip?'

'It was lovely! These new carriages are soo comfortable.' Gran has a strange accent - a weird mix of Archers-meets-Nazi.

Jamie's hovering on the edge of this family reunion, not saying anything, because he's transfixed by the cameras.

'And this is Jamie,' says Dad to Gran, but Jamie doesn't look at her, he's too busy looking up. 'That's weird,' he mutters.

'What's weird?' says Dad.

'The cameras. They're all turning away from us.'

'Maybe they've found something on the other side of the station.'

Gran looks sharply at Jamie. 'EyeLondon, isn't it?'

He nods.

'It was on the news yesterday,' she says. 'And I went to the store in Okehampton and I bought this lovely hat and glasses.'

'Oh,' says Jamie, uncertain how to take this news.

Gran surveys the cameras, turning in the spot without taking her eyes off them. Her stick floats several inches above the pavement and with that hat, the red lips and the glasses, there's definitely a wicked-witch-of-the-west feel to the way she's moving. Any moment, she'll burst into song.

'I had thought,' she said, 'that they wouldn't be able to introduce this.' She sounds sad. 'You are right. They've all turned away. Hmm. I think we should be moving along.' She strides towards the exit.

Mum and Dad stare after her. The eccentric-relative act seems to have slipped a bit.

'Not that way,' calls Dad, wrestling with the case. 'That way.' He nods his head towards Platform One and the P sign.

Still watching the cameras, Gran changes course. Her stick isn't touching the pavement at all. Why does she bother with it? Jamie trots along beside her, also staring at the cameras. They look like spectators at an aerobatics display, both of them with their chins in the air. Mum follows with the twins, Dad with the obstinate suitcase and me with Jamie.

The cameras are still spinning, and its kind of weird because it looks as if they're deliberately turning away from us; their angle is always opposite to ours. This is obviously concerning to Gran, because she's leaning on her cane, looking thoughtful, or as thoughtful as someone can look with an enormous set of shades and a huge hat.

'We should stick together,' she says to Mum.

Olivia's fascinated by Gran, but Bailey can't bear to come into the light, and keeps trying to hide. She won't even look at the statue of Paddington Bear, sitting on his suitcase at the bottom of the escalators. Mum tries to untangle Bailey's hands from her legs.

It's Saturday, so it's not crazy busy, but still there's a lot of people milling around the concourse, stepping on and off the escalators. The clock marks the entrance to the station, and the parking is just off to the right, and that's when I see the men come in. There's three of them, dark-haired and dressed identically in dark suits and sunglasses.

They gaze around the station, as if they're looking for someone, but not the way that people search for someone they're supposed to meet. These men are _systematic_. They look out of place – except for Gran, there's no-one else wearing sunglasses. And suits, on a Saturday? But it's not their clothes or their glasses that are really why I'm staring at them. It's that angle of the neck on the head; that angle that says 'male' and that angle that I saw earlier today. In the cab outside our house.

They look like sharks.

'Jamie,' I hiss, and nod over at the men.

He looks at them for a moment and then the penny must have dropped because his eyes widen. 'Aren't they?'

'I think so,' I say.

'What?' asks Dad.

'I think they were in that cab.'

'Cab? What cab?'

'You know,' says Jamie impatiently, 'I _told_ you.'

Dad looks blank.

'Have you seen these men before?' says Gran. Her voice is quieter; she seems to have fallen into the background. Even her lipstick is less noticeable.

Jamie and I nod. Kind of uncertainly, I mean you can't see an enormous amount of detail from a third storey window, but the men feel like the same people. They're standing under the clock, watching us and for some reason I feel very reluctant to go any closer to them. But the car park is in that direction.

'There is a side entrance,' says Jamie.

'We'll go that way then,' says Gran. 'And Corrine?' I look at her. 'I'd take that pretty hat off your head.'

Gran's only just arrived and she's already taking charge.

We walk over to the side entrance. Gran's hobbling now, using her stick like a proper old woman. The cameras turn away as we walk, so they never face towards us, but I can still see the symbol on their sides; the logo of eyeLondon.

Last year there was lots of fuss about eyeLondon: The London Eye didn't like it and Apple thought it was too similar to their own branding. Even the Royal Foundation for the Blind was grumbling because of the image of an eye. There was talk about Expensive Lawsuits That will Cost London Ratepayers Millions of Pounds and then all of a sudden …nothing. Which might have been because of the World Cup, which is, let's face it, much more interesting than security cameras.

We had a debate about eyeLondon at school – about freedom and privacy, which is a topic you know should be important but really it isn't, what's the point in worrying about privacy if you already have Facebook and Tumblr? And then we all kind of got bored with it and Ms Winner, the social studies teacher, sighed and said girls you don't realise how easily freedom is eroded, which is the sort of thing that teachers say.

The men by the clock are obviously searching the crowd. One has a hand to his ear, like in the movies when they're getting information from a Bluetooth receiver. I always think this is stupid. Secret agents surely would know not to touch their ears.

_Secret Agents. _Don't be silly, Corrine. You're imagining things. But suddenly I really want to run to the exit, to get away from these black-wearing shark men because they are starting to spook me out. Then one of them points and it's worse than anything, because it's like he's found exactly what he's looking for. And what he's looking for is me.


	11. Chapter 11

**Quick Note: this story is a first draft only; I've only done quick edits for spelling and ****so forth. If you notice any errors, or if there's anything that's not clear, please do let me know. Always appreciate f'back.**

**thanks.**

**Chapter Eleven**

'Come on,' I try to sound calm. But inside I can feel tension, building.

Gran looks at me. Her eyes are hidden behind the dark lenses and the set of her mouth is pretty grim. 'They are not with the police,' she says, quite calmly, as if she's talking about the weather. 'In fact, they appear rather amateurish.' She looks at Dad. 'What do you think, Roger?'

Dad looks blank. This is his normal expression; he lives in a little science-bubble most of the time, coming out of it to serve us breakfast and get the twins to bed. I'm not sure that he's even noticed the dark-suited men at all.

Mum's aware, though. She's holding the girls firmly by their hands – Bailey on her left, Olivia on her right, and the girls grizzle as they are pulled along. They're not good at walking fast in one direction. They can run okay in a playground, but that doesn't involve straight lines, just travelling from a slide to a swing set. Walking fast is adult walking and they don't like it. But Mum ignores them; there's a set look to her face. Now and again she looks over her shoulder at the men who are threading their way across the concourse towards us.

The crowd parts to let the dark-suits through and I'm reminded of fish, scattering when there's a shark nearby. The men walk quickly, but not too quickly, in our direction – are they stalking us? They're still wearing sunglasses, despite the fact they are now inside the station, and one has his finger clamped to his ear, like he's listening to someone through a tiny earpiece. Maybe there's another group of shark-men outside the station and my God if that's true I'll really panic.

But part of me thinks don't be silly Corrine, this is real life and in real life men in dark suits are just men in dark suits. There's a perfectly rational explanation for all this.

I'm breathing deeply - in through my nose, out through my mouth – just as I've been taught since I was a little kid. Don't panic, Corrine. Stay calm. But my palms are growing warm and I have a horrible, horrible feeling in my gut.

Gran smiles at me. 'It's okay.'

I try to smile back, but my face feels wobbly; I'm not sure things are okay at all.

As we near the exit the world seems to pause. Everything moves in slow motion. Like those action shots in a movie, when the bullet whizzes through the air and the hero can amazingly watch it move and duck out of its way. And that's how I feel now; that every step takes ages, that my heart rate is so slow I'm barely alive. The men behind us move leisurely, each pace clearly defined and significant and all the noise and clatter of the railway station falls away, until there's only my heart, beating slowly, slowly, and these men, drifting through the station towards us.

It's the weirdest feeling.

And then, bam, time speeds up and there's nowhere to go and we're still miles from the exit and Dad's fighting the suitcase and Mum's almost dragging the twins and the men are there, right behind us now, and _it's me they want_, it's me they're after.

They've got their hands out, reaching to me, grabbing me and I'm struggling, fighting against them. Their grip is rough and strong but there's three of them, what can I do?

Jamie's on my other arm tugging me away from them, so I feel like I'm pulled in two and its kind of him to help but they're bigger and tougher. His fingers slip from my arm.

'Come on, little girl,' says one. He has a strange accent, not English at all, and his skin is brown. I can't see his eyes, because of these wrap-around glasses that they all wear. They could be clones, except one looks older than the others; his hair has little flecks of grey in it. I can see myself in their glasses, my face all panicked and strangely twisted by the lens.

Dad's yelling, and Mum's yelling and the twins are just silent as silent, which is amazing really. Jamie just stands there, stuck still as a statue. I notice all sorts of weird details, like people turning to stare. Their faces look surprised, or horrified. The signs above the trains are changing and another train pulls up and there's a boy, spilling a drink on the concrete. And then there's…

Gran.

She looms behind the clone-men like a nightmare, like a ghost. Her glasses are bigger than theirs and her hat makes her taller than normal, so she doesn't seem old and frail at all. She seems strong and powerful and I'm not sure that this isn't scarier than the men who are trying to pull me away from my family.

I'm burning up now, but it's different from yesterday. Yesterday I felt focussed; I was furious with Mr Patel. But now, I'm confused, scared – I mean, these men appearing, pulling me away from my family so quickly. It's happened so fast. So the anger isn't _tight_ like last time. Now I'm hot all over. I feel like a candle about to burst into flame. All it would take is a match.

'Corrine,' says Gran crisply, 'Stop that.'

I blink, and refocus.

She's right. I mean, who _are_ these people? They have no claim on me, no claim at all. They have no right to start dragging me away.

With that thought comes RAGE, pure and simple, burning burning and my hands are so so painful, its unbelievable, like I've put them into oil, and then I can't see them any more, I can't see anything anymore, except there's another light in front of me, as bright as the sun, and it shines so intensely I can barely see. Blindly, I stretch forward, my hands connecting with the grey-haired man.

He screams, puts his hands to his face.

The light seems to stretch and grow. It arcs, like lightening, like a flame and the other men scream too, tiny yells of horror and agony. Their grip on my arm loosens, falls away. I twist free.

There are cries from the people on the concourse, and far, far away I think I hear a siren.

'Well done,' says Gran, panting slightly. 'Come on. Let's go.'

She takes my hand. Her touch is cool as water and as welcome as rain in the desert. Breathe in and out, Corrine, in and out. Calm. Calm.

Gradually the heat subsides. I can see again.

The men lie on the floor, groaning. Their backs arch, their legs quiver. It's like they've been tasered. Their sunglasses have slipped and I can see their faces, contorted with pain.


	12. Chapter 12

**I've changed this from an X-men FF to a Misc. FF -**** because that's probably a more accurate description;** although there's elements of X-men in this piece, if you were reading it to find out what's happened to Logan, well, you'll be disappointed. When I started writing this I wanted to explore what life might be like if you had a mutation like they have in X-men, but that's about it, I haven't put in Rogue or Xavier or anyone actually from the X-men movies/comics... So anyway, hope no-one minds the change. 

**Chapter Twelve**

'Personally,' Gran says, 'I find it better not to look.'

The rest of my family seems to be in shock; they stand like mannequins in the poses they were in before the light, before the fire.

'Well, come on then,' says Gran irritably. 'We haven't got all day.'

Jamie points at the cameras. They are spinning quickly, turning around and around, a tiny camera dance. It's as though someone is searching to see what is happening down here on the railway concourse.

Two of the men look surprisingly young but the third, the grey haired one, has hard, old eyes. He pushes on the floor, tries to stand, but his legs seem to give way. He glares up at me, as though it's my fault all this has happened. Gran pokes him with her cane. He collapses, groaning.

'Time to get going,' says Gran. Like dreamers waking from sleep the rest of the family start to move, stepping forwards one step, two steps. Three. Olivia pulls her hand free of Mum's grip. 'I can walk by _myself_.'

Bailey stares with wide eyes and says nothing.

Then we're out the door and away. It's sunny outside. And surprisingly normal, apart from the police cars trying to navigate through London traffic. It's now that I notice that although cars will pull over for ambulances, they are less helpful for police.

'That's better,' says Gran, lifting her face to the sunshine.

Driving home, we're all quiet. I'm exhausted. It's all too intense. My hands are quietly throbbing in time with my heart. It's not too far to our house, but the traffic seems to crawl along Euston Road. The twins seem happy enough, kicking their feet and staring out at the traffic – being in the car is a novelty to them. I watch out the back window, in case there's anyone following. Gran's looking in side mirrors, too. But there's nothing, or if there is I can't see it.

The enormous suitcase does not contain Gran's luggage. It contains letters, papers, general crap left over from Mum's parents, Tom and Daisy. Gran's been having a clear out, and she brought it all to London, for you Diana. Mum tries to look happy but I'm fairly sure she's not that excited about having to wade through a huge pile of paper.

Mum shows Gran to the basement spare room. I sit on the sofa and stare at the ceiling.

Our lounge is okay, I guess. The magazines call it "open plan", like it's a truly innovative idea to knock down a wall to create more space. The kitchen is at one end, set into a lean to which opens onto the garden. There's the dining table, covered with plates and today's Guardian. At the other end is the sofa and two easy chairs and two tiny seats for the twins who insist on being treated like adults and will not accept beanbags.

The chairs shouldn't match the sofa, but Mum said it was cheaper to get a three-piece suite, which is so Yesterday, but who listens to Corrine? I made up some cushions in Textiles last year from old blankets and they deliberately don't match which is the best I can do in terms of asymmetry and retro vibes. I'm fighting a losing battle with my parents and their taste and unfortunately, since it's their money that's used to decorate the house, there's not much I can do.

Above me is a circle made of plaster carved into the shape of oak leaves. The light hangs from the centre of the carving. It's a cream globe of glass, and for some reason it makes me feel better just to stare at it and think of nothing at all.

Mum hands me some paracetamol and puts a glass of water to my lips so I can swallow them down.

'Mum, do you know – what happened to Mr Patel?' I think of the men on the floor of the railway station, curled around themselves and groaning. Did I do that?

'The shopkeeper? I don't know,' she says softly. 'The police said you were very brave, that you managed to pull Deepthi from the fire. I didn't even realise there was anyone in the shop with you two girls, until Dad said you were asking about him.' She ruffled my hair and smiles at me, as if she's thinking what a nice girl Corrine is, to care about the sales staff.

'Mum,' I say, 'I…' But I don't say what I'm thinking. To say I started a fire in an Indian store is too big, too much, because that might lead to other thoughts, like I electrocuted three men in Paddington Station. What am I, anyway? What sort of person does that?

She puts her hand to her lips. 'Ssh. Don't say anything.'

She clatters upstairs to her bedroom, and returns with latex gloves and scissors. Nurse Mode. 'Time to look at your hands.' As she gets a stool from the kitchen area, she turns and says, 'lets not jump to conclusions, Corrine. None of us know what happened at the station. It might have been an accident.'

'Do you have any tea, Diane?' Gran's standing at the door, and Mum and I both jump.

'Of course,' says Mum.

'I'll get it,' says Dad. He's shut the twins into their room. The theory is that they're supposed to have a nap, but usually they just play with their vast collection of dolls. Which is fine, I guess, because at least the rest of us get a break.

Mum sits on the stool in front of me, peeling tape from my hand. With a sigh Gran settles onto the sofa beside me and peers at my fingers with interest. She feels just a little bit too close but I'm stuck because Mum's put a white paper sheet on my knees and is pulling the bandage back, taking it off my palm. Why does Gran have to sit right next to me? Why can't she use an easy chair?

'How's Jim?' says Dad. He winks at Mum. They've been matchmaking Gran with Jim for ages, but Gran and Jim, being old, are way past the age of romance. Gran acts as though she's totally oblivious to all their heavy hints but personally, I think that Gran is pretty aware of everything that's going on and has just decided to be dignified and ignore them. Which is what my parents do when I talk about Going Out to Parties or Buying Alcohol for Their Daughter. So there's a lot of pleasure in watching Mum and Dad being ignored.

'As grumpy as sin. He's just had his hip done.' Gran looks different without her hat and glasses; younger and yet – older. Weird. It's her eyes, I think. They're old, really old, but her face is fairly wrinkle-free. Maybe she's had plastic surgery, but I find it hard to believe that she would ever do that. She just doesn't seem the type.

Gran catches me looking at her. 'What?'

'How old are you, Gran?'

Mum's fingers quiver just a bit. Gran smiles. 'Corrine, my dear, I'm as old as my tongue and a little older than my teeth.'

There are two things Gran will never tell you. A: how old she is and B: who was Daisy's father. (Daisy being Mum's mother, my grandmother, who died in a car accident when Mum was little.) Mum and I have tried and tried to get answers to A, and we always get the same reply. Mum did ask B once, a long time ago, before I was born. Apparently, Gran turned almost catatonic with rage. So Mum's never asked again, and she's banned me from asking, too. She says that Gran will tell us when she's ready, which I think means we will never know who my great-grandfather is, or was, and personally, I think this isn't fair. I mean, what if he turned out to have some awful disease or something and we all die horrible deaths because Gran wouldn't give us crucial information? Mum says I'm being ridiculous, but I think that actually, I have a point.


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter Thirteen**

'Here you are,' says Dad, handing Gran a cup of tea. 'White, no sugar?'

She takes a sip, leaving a crescent of red lipstick on the side of the cup, then sighs and stretches out her legs. 'Perfect.' She's wearing cream three quarter pants and her calves are mottled with little thread veins.

'Owww!' The dressing on my left hand sticks to my palm. I stare up at the light and try to think of something else. Like beach holidays or clothes or …anything really.

'There,' Mum says. 'Well done, Corrine.'

My palm rests on the paper sheet, looking like a snail fresh out of its shell. After being encased in bandages, it's strange to see it exposed. My skin's weirdly sensitive; I can feel every brush of air whispering across it. Mum starts on the other hand.

'It's looking good,' says Gran, peering at it like an expert. She eyes me over her teacup. 'Did you burn yourself at the station?'

I can't tell from how it feels. I mean, yesterday my hands were sore. Today they're sore too. Although maybe they're not as bad. 'I don't know. I don't think they're any worse. Are they worse, Mum?'

Mum's inspecting my hands. She looks like a palm reader. 'Yesterday it looked as though you'd taken off the top layer of your skin, but already it's growing back.'

'That's the heat,' says Gran. 'If you increase the heat to them, just a little bit, you increase the blood flow and then you'll heal quicker. Try it.'

'What?'

'Go on.' Gran nudges me. 'Make them hotter. Come on. Don't be scared.'

What does she mean? Deliberately increase the heat? I have spent my entire life trying to reduce it; I have a bad history of setting fires. I study my ultra-pink palms. They do hurt, true, but its like the discomfort of a cut when you pull the scab off – it's sore but it's a good pain, because you can see underneath the scab that the skin's grown together.

It's a strange thought that my condition might be useful. I'm always trying to think calmly, trying to ease the tension out, away from my muscles. I'm scared of what I can do if it gets too hot. Like Mr Patel. And this morning. Three men, groaning on the station floor. How could anyone do that? I wish I wasn't like this. I wish I didn't have this condition.

'I can't,' I say, looking at my pink hands.

'It's who you are, Corrine,' says Gran. 'You can't run away from it.'

Mum places a dressing on the palms and tapes the edges down. The tape is white and looks like paper.

'You'll live,' she says cheerfully.

'That's it?' I wiggle my fingers, my thumb. Wow. I can grip things! I can go to the toilet by myself!

Gran puts down her teacup. 'Now,' she says. 'We have to decide something.'

Dad looks up from the newspaper. 'What?'

He's so out of date; he still gets a paper copy of the Guardian each Saturday. He refuses to read it on-line, no matter how much Jamie and I go on about reducing our carbon footprint and stuff.

'Look at us all. You're reading the paper; I'm having a nice cup of tea. Everything's normal,' says Gran. 'But it's not, is it?'

Dad looks confused.

'Roger,' Mum says, 'she means that three strange men tried to grab Corrine.'

'Oh,' says Dad. 'Yes.'

'Roger, are you going to ring the police, or shall I?'

I scrunch into the corner of the sofa, wishing I wasn't hearing adults talking about me. My palms begin to warm; not the heat of pure anger, just the warmth of discomfort. But, remembering what Gran said, I don't try and push the burn away, instead I try and hold it there, feeling the temperature gently rise, as if I had a hot drink in my hands. This kind of warmth is not a problem, and strangely, it's no bother to me, no bother at all.

'Those men at the railway station,' I say, and the adults hush immediately, as if they'd forgotten I was even in the room. It's amazing how they do that. It's quite handy sometimes; you can hear all sorts of things by just being quiet. 'I think they were here earlier.'

'At this house?' says Gran. Her eyes are alert, and for some reason I'm reminded of an owl, turning its head, following the rustle of prey in the grass.

'There was a cab. Jamie took a photo.'

'They were outside?' Mum seems surprised.

'Mum. We told you. At breakfast.'

She looks at Dad, as if to say I didn't hear anything, did you? He looks back at her blankly.

Everyone says that teenagers don't communicate, but communication is a two-way street and in my experience its parents who are the problem – they never listen when you tell them something.

I sigh. 'Jamie took a photo. It's on my phone.' I reach into my pocket. My phone's not there. 'Shit! Where is it?'

'Did you leave it in your room?' says Dad.

I never do that. What's the point in having a phone if it's not in your pocket? But then I remember: bandages, and padded fingers. I hadn't taken it with me. 'Oh yeah. Wait a moment, I'll go and get it.'

No doubt I'll soon get used to the sensation of freedom and won't notice it any more, but right now it feels AMAZING to have my fingers and thumbs free, to be able to rest my hand on the stair rail and feel the smooth wood under my fingers.

Mum and Dad peer at the blurry image on the screen of my phone. 'It _might_ be them,' says Dad, doubtfully.

'It doesn't matter if its them or not. We have to call the police,' says Mum. 'What if those men come back this afternoon? Or tomorrow? Be sensible. We don't know who they are. We don't even know what they want.'

'They want Corrine,' says Dad, and all the adults turn and look at me and I feel so guilty, even though I don't think I've done anything to incite random strangers to grab me.

'I don't think they'll be going anywhere for a while,' says Gran.

Mum and I look at each other. Gran's white hair has been squashed from the hat and on the wide sofa she appears tiny, vulnerable. And quite suddenly I remember the three men lying on the ground, curled up and groaning and Gran looming behind them, huge and menacing.

'It wasn't me at all. It was you! What did you do?' I can feel heat building in my palms again. Again! When will I get myself under control? But wasn't it Gran who had told me not to be scared? So I ask her, louder this time, 'What did you do to them?'

With a grunt, Gran picks up her teacup. Her voice is muffled. 'As I said. Nothing more than they deserved.' She straightens, slowly. 'However, the police have a habit of asking very inconvenient questions. I'd prefer not to be involved.'

Mum sighs. 'Gran.'

Dad's just watching, like this is a soap opera. Maybe it is. It sure seems like one to me. Gran toddles over to the kitchen, deposits her cup in the sink with a click.

And then the doorbell rings. We all freeze to the spot like statues.

'Caught in the act,' says Gran ruefully, and rubs her hands. I know that gesture. Its what I do when my hands get too warm. 'Are you going to open it?' she says to Dad. 'Or shall I?'


	14. Chapter 14

Dad peers through the spy hole in the door. I don't even realise I'm holding my breath until he says 'It's all right. It's Mrs Kumar.' He opens the door.

Mrs Kumar is dressed smartly and conservatively, in a black skirt and heels and over one shoulder she has a large leather tote bag. Made from crocodile skin, it's bright red and out of place against the corporate-black. Myself, I would have either had an a) black bag or b) another pop of red: scarf, shoes.

Dad closes and locks the door behind her and, unusually for him, because he's pretty careless in the matter of security, snibs the safety chain.

Mum introduces Gran and Mrs Kumar says pleased to meet you then they stand in that awkward way that adults sometimes have, when they've got something to say but don't know how to start.

'Lovely day today, isn't it?' says Dad enthusiastically. 'Can I get you a cup of tea?'

Tea and weather. The English ice-breakers.

Mrs Kumar says tea would be lovely thank you and there's a discussion over sugar and milk and then Mum says please have a seat and Mrs Kumar says thank you again, and sits on the sofa.

'And how is Deepthi?' says Mum.

Mrs Kumar nods and says Deepthi is fine thank you, she's a little shaken up – here she looks sideways at me – but she's uninjured. Mum smiles and says I'm glad and I try to smile too but I really have no idea what Mrs Kumar means by that look. Dad clonks away with the teapot and teacups and asks how much milk does she likes and one lump or two.

'I came to say thank you,' says Mrs Kumar to me. I murmur something, because I feel guilty enough without Gratitude Being Expressed. After all, I was the one who wanted to go into the shop. 'My daughter is very foolish. But I think she is also very lucky.' She smiles at me. 'If you had not been there, I do not know what might have happened.'

'But she's okay now?' I ask.

Mrs Kumar nods. 'She breathed in a little too much smoke, and coughed a great deal last night, so I have told her that today she must rest while I go to work. There are many problems happening with our new system and I must be there. But first I wanted to come and thank you personally for helping my Deepthi.'

Dad hands her a cup of tea.

'Thank you very much,' says Mrs Kumar 'And I am here also for another reason. There is something I must show you.'

She retrieves her notebook from her bag. Its one of the new ultra-light ones and it has voice recognition and eye scan tech, so she has to hold it up to her eye and blink twice and say her name before it starts.

She sets it on her lap and tells it to go to file A. It whirrs away. 'This image,' she says 'is from the security camera.'

Dad looks at her with his typical look of blankness so she elaborates: 'the security feed from the shop.'

'The Indian shop?' says Mum. 'Where…?' She looks at me.

Mrs Kumar nods. 'Yes. From the shop of Mr Patel.'

How did Mrs Kumar get those images?

Then I remember the little camera on the roof and Mr Patel saying do you think I don't see what happens in my own store? And the eyeLondon news item: eyeLondon takes feeds from private cameras.

'You work for eyeLondon,' I say.

Mrs Kumar seems surprised that I wasn't aware of this. 'Of course. Didn't Deepthi tell you?' She looks at Mum and Dad. 'eyeLondon is a huge huge project, very complicated, very expensive. Yesterday we went live. There are so many images being captured, and the software needed to interpret them is extremely complex.' She probably saw that none of us were interested in the details of a computer system, because she stopped and said, softly, 'but I never, never imagined that the first day would have my own daughter in the feed. Here it is.' She spoke to the computer, turned it around so we could see the image. 'Play.'

It was a shaky CCTV footage, grainy and grey and cheap, just as Mr Patel's shop camera would be. It was probably a miracle that the system could interpret the images at all.

'How can you run facial recognition off that?' Dad nods at the images. They're jerking, so it looks like the shop is on a stop-start mode.

'Oh, it is very challenging,' says Mrs Kumar and starts to talk about software compatibility requirements and data points.

I watch the computer screen and ignore the tech-speak. It's weird to look at myself. There's Deepthi and I, walking to the back of the store. I pick up something and Deepthi shakes her head and I put it back. Then there's a stop start as we move in small jerks to the back of the store, to the saris.

Mum and Dad and Gran sit silent and still while Deepthi shoves black-and-white fabric into a grainy bag. Mrs Kumar says 'You can see what she is about to do.'

Dad looks at me. 'Did you know about this?'

I stare at my feet.

The view cuts to another camera. It must have been just above the front desk, because it stares out at the door of the shop. I have no memory of it being there, but then I was pretty distracted at the time. The image is blurred and the light seems to fragment and spread, so when Deepthi opens the door, it looks like there's a white blaze in the middle of the screen that silhouettes her figure and the bag she's carrying.

'Yes,' says Mrs Kumar. 'My daughter was stealing.'

Mum says nothing, which is almost worse than her getting angry.

'I wish I did not have to show you this at all, because I am very ashamed of my daughter.' Mrs Kumar wipes her eyes. Her mascara blurs and spreads. 'She is very stupid.'

'We were all young and stupid once,' says Gran. 'Don't be too hard on her.'

I watch the screen. It's weird; like watching an old made-for-TV movie that has me in it. But overlaid on the grainy black and white images are my memories, my feelings. On the screen Mr Patel starts to push himself against Deepthi. Watching the screen of the computer puts me back in the shop, right back there, as if Deepthi was being assaulted in front of me and I was powerless to stop it.

Except I wasn't powerless, was I? On the tiny computer screen, and with that poor quality image, it's difficult to see the details, but its easy enough to see me push Mr Patel, and his look of horror and fear as he stumbles and turns towards the interior of the shop would almost make me feel sorry for him, had he not been trying to force himself on Deepthi.

Mr Patel stretches out one hand, like he's reaching for the camera, and presses the other to his chest, trying to stop the flames that ooze through his fingers. There's no sound, absolutely no sound at all, which makes it all the more sinister, but I can remember his screams, and the smell of his chest, burning.

Then image blurs and shivers as the smoke drifts through the air and then Deepthi's dragged out of the door and out of the camera shot.

Mum, Dad and Gran sit like they're stuffed, as if they don't want to say anything. Mrs Kumar says 'rewind' and on the screen the pictures of me and Deepthi and Mr Patel step backwards, assuming the positions we'd been in before Mr Patel came out from his counter.

I wish he'd never moved – I wish he'd stayed there and called the police, just as he had said he would.

'What happened to him?' said Gran. It's pretty clear who she's referring to.

'He is in hospital,' says Mrs Kumar. 'In a special unit for people who have been burnt. And if he survives I will press charges of attempted rape. I do not think you need to concern yourself about Mr Patel.'

Mum and Dad stare at each other, then at me, as though they're accusing me of withholding vital information. Don't look at me, I think, it's not my fault. But it is my fault – Deepthi went to the store for me, and she stole saris because I didn't have enough money. I can't look up, can't meet their eyes. I stare at my rose-pink, healing fingers and wish I was somewhere else.

'It is a shock, yes?' says Mrs Kumar softly, to Mum and Mum nods and seems unable to say anything else.

'I am very sorry,' Mrs Kumar reaches out, touches Mum on the knee. 'There is something else I must show you.' She says to the computer: 'Rewind. Pause. Enlarge.' And there on the screen is me, staring right into the camera. Except it's not really me – my nose is bigger, wider and my eyes look puffy, as though I've been hit. But it's awful; I know I'm not beautiful, not like Deepthi, but I never, never realised I was as ugly as _that_. Oh my God! All too much. Too much. I feel sick.

Mum looks horrified. 'What is that?'

'This is your daughter,' says Mrs Kumar.

Mum looks disbelievingly at the image and Dad peers at the screen as though this hideously ugly figure was highly compelling.

'This is most unusual,' he says.

'It has been a big problem for us,' says Mrs Kumar. 'I have been working all evening on it.'

It's a big problem for me, too, if I turn this ugly when I get angry. I feel like an actor in a play, because this isn't real, is it? It's an image on a screen only, a movie or youtube footage – made only for the camera. The person on the screen – that can't be me. I stumble to my feet. The adults turn their heads to look at me.

'Where are you going?' says Mum.

I do not want to stay and hear this. I do not want to think about Mr Patel or his horrible, horrible shop any more. I leave the room, and, trying to be mature, avoid slamming the door. I hope Mum appreciates this gesture, although I doubt she even notices – she's too busy staring at the screen. As I go upstairs, Mrs Kumar says 'The software cannot work on Corrine's face.'

I'm not surprised. It probably gave up in disgust when it saw me.

I lie on my bed, staring up at the clouds, drifting in their normal pointless way across the blue London sky. I wish I wasn't here. I wish I was dead. I wish I had never gone into that shop.


	15. Chapter 15

**Fifteen**

When Mrs Kumar leaves, Dad locks the door and sets the safety chain. She's left a parcel for me. It smells of smoke. I don't want to look at it; I know what it is. It's the saris.

Gran peers like a caged animal through the venetians. I wish she wouldn't. I hate these blinds; they're made from a white plastic that's faded to orange-pink with the sun. I've found some in cedar that would look a lot nicer than what we've got at the moment, but Mum always says we can't afford it and that the ones we've got at the moment are perfectly fine.

When we did this room up Mum and I spent ages looking at colour schemes and mood boards and we got test pots and scraps of wallpaper and fabric and it should have looked AMAZING, but unfortunately the Parents wanted to Drive Down Costs. Dad's even worse than Mum. We had found a really cool walnut dining table but he found something bigger and about half the price from Ikea, so guess what, no walnut table for the Peterson Household.

I suppose we need to be careful of trees and recycle and everything, but sometimes I wish that you could also have nice furniture, as well as caring for the environment.

Gran runs a finger along the blinds, checks it for dust. 'Diana, you need a new cleaner.' Mum looks annoyed, but she doesn't say anything because Gran's still talking. 'We should leave now.'

'Leave? Go where?' Dad says.

'Home,' says Gran.

'Back to Devon? You've only just arrived,' says Dad.

'It's not safe here,' says Gran. 'Besides, Corrine's hands are a lot better. Jamie. When's the next train to Exeter?'

Jamie pulls his phone from his pocket, repeats the question into its mic. 'Five pm.'

'Aren't you just being a little bit paranoid?' says Dad.

'Maybe.' Gran acknowledges this reluctantly. 'But better safe than sorry.'

'Roger,' says Mum, in the tone of voice that says "step out of this, I am handling it." Folding her arms across her chest, she glares at Gran. 'And how will you get home from the station?'

'A taxi,' says Gran briskly. 'Or Jim can pick us up. Go and pack, Corrine.'

'What!?' I say.

'You're coming with me.'

'What? Me?' Shake my head. No. No. No frigging way am I going to Devon.

'Mum, please. Don't make me go.'

I flop onto my bed, stare up at the clouds passing over the skylight. I'm adopting a passive resistance policy. It doesn't seem to be working though, because Mum pulls my sports bag from my cupboard. It's right at the back, and the handles are stuck around something so she has to tug pretty hard.

Her voice is muffled. 'As awful as this sounds, I'm not thinking of you.'

'Mum!'

'What really happened in that store, Corrine?'

I shrug. 'You saw the video.'

'I saw my daughter stealing.'

'It was Deepthi. Not me.'

'You watched her take something that wasn't hers, and you let her walk out the door with it.'

How can I explain the difference? _Deepthi_ took it, _Deepthi_ walked out the door. It wasn't me; it wasn't even my bag. What was I supposed to do? Was I supposed to be the goody-good? Anyway, I needed that fabric. How else am I going to do my GCSE?

'I think you'll be about a week,' says Mum. She opens my drawers, considers their contents carefully. 'Jeans, sweatshirts I suppose? And rainwear. It's awfully wet where Gran lives.'

They keep acting as though it's my fault. But if I hadn't been there, Deepthi would be in way worse trouble than she is now. I'm practically a hero!

'Listen to me, Corrine.' Mum pulls a pile of underwear from my drawer, pokes it into my bag. 'When you steal, you take more than something that's not yours. You know what you take?'

I didn't steal. Why can't she understand that?

'You take away trust,' says Mum. 'How can I trust you?'

'Mum. I didn't take anything.'

'Deepthi took it for you, Corrine. And from what I could see, you did nothing to stop her.'

Every time I say something it comes out all wrong so I decide best to say nothing at all.

'Besides,' adds Mum in a lets-be-practical voice, 'I think your grandmother might be right. You'll be safer in the country.'

'You're just being paranoid.'

'Maybe,' says Mum. 'Maybe I am.' She smiles at me suddenly. 'But even the paranoid have enemies. Besides,' she becomes serious, 'it's not just you I have to think of. What if those men come after Jamie? Or the girls? Better you go away, Corrine. Gran can keep you safe.'

'Gran?! She's nearly a hundred years old, Mum.'

Mum just looks at me and I stare back at her, fierce, into her eyes, and I can feel the heat trembling in my hands. And maybe this day hasn't been completely wasted because now I'm not scared of the warmth, I love it, I pull it towards me and wrap it into my heart. And my palms are burning, but it's a good feeling.

Mum shakes her head. 'You're a lot like her, you know.'

'Like Gran?'

Mum nods. She shoves socks into my bag. 'You have her strength.'

I wish she wouldn't compare me to that old witch downstairs. I'm not like her at all.

'When I was your age,' says Mum, adding a couple of tee shirts, all cotton but you can do a lot with cotton, especially with neutrals so that's ok, 'I used to wish I was as strong like her.'

'You're strong,' I say.

She shakes her head. 'Not like her. And not like you. That power you have. It just shines out of you…' Her face is distant, as though she's remembering something. I think of Mrs Kumar's computer and the image of my face, blurring and changing into something different. Something _other_.

'I wish it didn't.'

She smiles. 'Of course not. It can be scary.' She puts in a couple of sweatshirts and my Gap shirt. It's plaid, and normally I hate Gap, with their almost aggressive non-branding, but it works well in the country so I say nothing. 'That's the real reason you have to go. If anyone can teach you about this power of yours, it's Gran. Besides,' she adds, 'you can use the time to get ahead with your Textiles paper.'


	16. Chapter 16

**Smaller chapter today, sorry, but there was a natural break at the end of the final paragraph**

**If you've been enjoying this story, you might like the pinterest board for it, too. [For some reason I can't add a link] Go to pinterestdotcom /soulnecklace/corrine (be warned, there are spoilers)**

**there will be slower posting of new chapters for a while, over the Christmas break. Apologies in advance! I will try and put one more up before Christmas but no promises :)**

**Sixteen**

There's no shark men waiting at Paddington, just the normal station-induced chaos; pigeons clattering and boards changing and the tannoy sounding inexplicable words that bounce off the architecture so I can only catch fragments of what is being said. It's like standing at the bottom of the sea, listening to whale song.

I wear my new red hat and the aviator glasses. Gran carries her useless cane and is back with the Jackie-O look.

Dad and Jamie come to see us off. Dad's been giving me strange looks since Mrs Kumar's visit. Maybe he's measuring my face in his head and trying to imagine it changing.

'What?' I say, but he just shakes his head. 'Nothing.'

Maybe he's upset about Deepthi's shoplifting.

He turns to Gran. 'Don't forget to get the blood samples.'

'_More_ blood? You're worse than Dracula.'

'It's in a good cause,' he says and she humphs, but she smiles too.

Dad is trying to isolate the gene that causes the Condition, but I don't think he's getting anywhere. He's not using my blood, anyway; I don't trust him with a needle.

Jamie stands in the middle of the station concourse, hands in his pockets, staring up at the cameras and begging me to take my glasses off, just to see what the cameras do, until Gran tells him not to be a fool and makes him carry my bag.

'First rule of espionage, Jamie Peterson,' says Gran. 'Never draw attention to yourself.'

Dad leaves a message on Jim's answerphone, telling him that Gran's coming home today with me. It's a little unexpected he says. This makes me want to laugh – or cry. And can Jim pick us up from St Davids? We'll be arriving just after eight.

Dad trots off to the newsagents, returns with the Guardian for Gran and a bunch of fashion magazines for me. Bribery, for sending me away.

The train's late. This is not that surprising, British Rail being what it is, but it's hard to stand on the platform and wait, just wait, for the train to arrive. I want to turn around, to check the other platfoms, the station entrance, but Gran has one hand on my arm, and says 'Calm, Corrine.' Her palm is warm, though, so I don't know how calm she is, really.

Gran pulls out a little compact and lathers on lipstick. It's cherry red, and it doesn't really work for her, she's far too old to wear such intense colours. But she fiddles and fiddles, trying to get it just right, and all the time smearing it until it looks way too bright and garish.

She should wear more muted colours, like rose pink, and in a gloss, not a lacquer. But I'm not about to give make-up suggestions to my grandmother. Chances are, she wouldn't listen.

Gran looks at me, winks. 'All clear.'

She angles the compact and I realise that she's been inspecting the station with her mirror.

'Nice,' says Jamie appreciatively. Dad's phone beeps; it's a text from someone called Rowan, saying that Jim got the message and he, Rowan, will pick us up at 8.30.

'That's nice,' says Gran. The train pulls up in a ssshush of brakes. 'You'll like Rowan, Corrine.'

'Goodbye, Corrine,' says Dad, kissing me on the cheek. 'Look after Gran, you hear? And take care.'

He hugs Gran, narrowly avoiding lip-stick smear. Jamie's not so lucky; Gran plants a great smacker on his cheek, so it looks like he's badly bruised.

As the train pulls away from the station, I see Jamie rubbing frantically at his face.

There are only a few empty seats in our carriage but we manage to find two opposite each other. There's a table in between us and we stare at each other across it like professional gamblers. Gran's facing forwards; I'm facing the rear of the train. I hate this position. Travelling backwards makes me feel sick.

'It always empties out at Reading. There will be more seats later on,' says Gran.

I shrug. Whatever.

'You might not believe me, dear, but I'm doing this for your own good.' Gran sets her head back against the headrest, clamps her hands around her cane. Her red mouth looks like a wound in her face.

I watch the scenery going past. It's not that interesting: houses, roads and trees. Lots and lots of trees. I hate the country.

Gran dozes a little, which I can't help but feel is a bit slack, given that there might be strange men after us. I keep an eye on the other passengers, looking for scary faces, sunglasses, fingers pressed to ears; anything that seems out of place. One of the side effects of such vigilance is that I notice everything – the little kids whining for sweets, the guys sniggering at a screen, the pregnant woman picking her way along the carriage. I'm fairly sure she's not a threat, but still – how do you know?

'I don't think you need to worry, Corrine.' Gran looks amused at the way I'm staring around at the passengers like a hyperactive squirrel. 'I can't see anyone trying anything in a train carriage.'

Who does she think she is? A super detective or something?

'You'll like him,' says Gran, reflectively.

'Who?'

'Jim's grandson. Rowan. He's a lovely boy.'

Why is she telling me this? I won't have much in common with a boy from the country. I hope she doesn't expect me to make conversation with him.

Outside, the sun is low and the shadows are growing long. We're travelling through Berkshire and it's a very manicured landscape; trees planted in neat rows, fields of wheat, power-lines that swoop up and down with the movement of the train. Staring out at the early evening, it feels as though the train is standing still and it's the world that's flipping past.


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter Seventeen**

No-one could tell from talking to me that I was born in New Zealand. Now, my accent is pure Islington. I was in my final year at primary school when we emigrated. Well, it was emigrating for me and Jamie, but not for Mum and Dad. Because they were born in England, they were just returning home.

We lived with Gran for a few months, until Dad found a job in London.

I still remember the shock of arriving: the weather, the accents, the little lanes that shut out the sun. In Devon everyone spoke with this strange accent, and some I just could not understand. Other children laughed at the way I talked, which I thought was grossly unfair, because until we moved to England I never even thought I had an accent.

Because Gran didn't have a computer I couldn't skype with my friends; I felt totally cut off. I couldn't wait to move into our own house. But even once we had our London house, with the computer installed and organised, it wasn't much help – because of the time difference between New Zealand and the UK, my friends were always about to go to bed, or getting ready for school. So gradually, we drifted away from each other. I don't talk to any of my kiwi friends anymore.

The school I went to in New Zealand was built on a hill, overlooking the city and the sea. The city was built on the plains below us. In the distance were the mountains. They were white with snow in the winter and when the nor'west wind blew they were outlined by the orange and red of the setting sun. If the wind was strong, dust blew across the flat plains in a grit-coloured fog and the mountains disappeared in the haze.

We moved because of the Earthquake. And what came after.

The first earthquake was at night. It was the weirdest feeling. I had been dreaming of flying or something, something pretty normal anyway and then my dream changed – I was a sock in a tumble dryer spinning, spinning, unable to stop. This was the first time I had that dream; unfortunately, it hasn't been the last.

When I pulled myself out of sleep the dream was still going on. I was still tumbling, in a drier. Everything was dark. The house was shaking, shaking and the world was crashing and bashing around us. I couldn't move, I was so scared. I wasn't even sure if I was awake at all.

Then I heard Jamie yelling from the other room, so I thought 'I'm probably awake', which was worse in a way, because the only good thing about nightmares are that they stop when you open your eyes. But this wasn't stopping; the shaking was still going on and everything was dark.

'Corrine! Corrine!'

It was such a relief to hear Dad's voice. Because then I could orientate myself; Dad was calling from the doorway, and my bed was opposite the door and I was in my bed. I was inside my bed, in my bedroom, in my house, in my city, on my planet, in my solar system, inside my universe. Amazing, the difference a voice in the darkness can make.

The house was shaking so much that Dad could hardly walk, he kept lurching off the walls like a drunk, but he managed to get to my bed and to get me out, and he carried me out of my room. Then he sat me at the top of the stairs. Go down on your bottom, Corrine, he said, because the house was shaking so badly I couldn't stand. Then he got Jamie. He told me later he thought the house was going to fall apart.

I was too scared to move. The shaking slowed a bit as I sat at the top of the stairs, and then Dad came back with Jamie and together we all went down on our bums, down the stairs, plunk plunk plunk. Even though the shaking had stopped, we still sat our way down the stairs; now and again the house seemed to rumble, and settle a bit. Keeping low felt safer.

All the neighbours were outside too. We stood on our driveways and stared at the houses, wondering if any of them would collapse. There were aftershocks; massive jolts that made it hard to stand up. And then mum said 'I'm cold' and we looked around and realised she was naked! Which would have been funny, at another time. But that night it just seemed like part of the whole Earthquake Experience, the feeling of the world being unreal, like dreaming I was a sock in a tumbler and not being able to walk down the stairs.

Our house was damaged in the earthquake so we had to sleep downstairs until the builders came to fix it.

That was the first earthquake. It was the strongest one. But the second one was the worst.

The second earthquake happened in February, in the summertime. Jamie and I were at school. I was sitting at my desk doing maths exercises (maybe that's why I hate maths so much now) and everything started shaking. We were used to aftershocks by then, so everyone dived under the desks. This morning I had to hold tight to my desk, because the shaking was so strong that it was almost walking across the floor. Jars of paintbrushes and books fell from the shelves and the computers all fell over. Some of the windows broke but the glass stayed in the frames. It looked like spider's webs.

After what felt like ages but was probably only a few minutes or so, the shaking stopped and the teachers took us into the playground – this was part of the earthquake drill, so we all knew what to do – and then they checked the roll, made sure everyone was present and so on.

And that was when we saw it. The city was hidden by a wall of dust, just like the dust that blew along the plains in the wind, but now there was no wind, there was just this dust around the city and there were gaps where there had been buildings. It was like looking at a face with missing teeth.

Some of the teachers started crying. I suppose they had family down there.

The teachers turned on the radio. The whole school huddled around it – the children and the teachers and the office lady - and we heard there were entire buildings fallen over, lots of people hurt, lots of people injured. The aftershocks came and went as we stood in the playground around the radio. In the distance we could hear sirens and there was a faint smell of smoke and always, the dust lifting up from the broken buildings.

Parents started coming to the school to pick up their kids but Jamie and I knew that no one would be coming for us. Mum worked in the middle of the dust-cloud, at the hospital. How could she leave? She'd been needed to treat all the patients. And Dad was at the University, a long way away, on the other side of town, and the radio said that all the roads were broken.

It was a very long day.

It was after that the nightmares started. And a week later, I burnt down the house.

And that was why Mum and Dad decided to move back to England. There aren't any earthquakes in England.


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter Eighteen**

I didn't mean to burn down the house. It was an accident, just like me burning Mr Patel. I seem to exist by accidents. It was the dream again, the one of tumbling, of uncontrollable falling. A legacy from the earthquakes.

After the February earthquake, there were lots and lots of aftershocks. We didn't have any toilet, so we had to use a bucket in the garden. Dad wanted to go to a part of New Zealand where the ground wasn't shaking all the time, but Mum couldn't leave work – lots of people had been hurt, and the hospital needed all its nurses – and she didn't want the family to be split up. 'What if there's another quake?' she said. 'I won't be able to contact you.'

That's another thing about an earthquake - everything stops working: phones, water. Power. A water tanker drove down our street every day, very slowly, and we'd come out with buckets and stand in a line with our neighbours and get water. We got to know our neighbours very well.

It was a bit like camping. We cooked on a barbeque or a camp stove and we slept on mattresses in the lounge downstairs, me and Jamie and Mum and Dad. The twins weren't born then. They came later, after we moved to England.

Some families were sleeping in tents in their back gardens because they were too scared to live inside, where things might fall on them, but we just took everything off the shelves and slept on the floor.

Every night I had the sock dream, tumbling and tumbling, and I'd wake crying and then everyone else would wake too. One night Mum was so tired that she gave me some medicine to help me sleep. Which I suppose was a mistake, because this time when I had the dream, I couldn't wake up. I kept thinking I was spinning. Stretching out with my arms, trying to hold myself still, but it didn't work - I just couldn't stop the turning. I tumbled and tumbled and the world would just not stand still. Was I awake or asleep? Then I felt really angry - why couldn't someone just turn off this stupid dryer and let me out? I yelled at whoever was controlling it to MAKE IT STOP.

Mum and Dad both woke up when I shouted (not Jamie. It takes an lot to wake Jamie) and they said that, still sleeping, I reached out my hands and this flame flew out of me, just like a flame thrower. It caught the camp stove we were using.

Mum and Dad grabbed us, pulled us out of the house. Because of the medicine Mum had given me my memory is a bit hazy – but I remember standing on the driveway, watching the fire and crying. The firemen took a long time to arrive because the roads were so bad from the earthquake. By the time they got to us it was too late. The house was well alight.

So it was because of me that we lost our home. And because of me, we had to move away.

Up until the fire, I'd had the odd little accident, like when I was a toddler and some kid had pushed me over and then I'd get a bit mad with whoever it was. A few times Mum had to dunk my hands in a bucket (she had one by the back door) until I recovered my temper. Later, Mum showed me how to settle myself by breathing slowly and calmly, in through your nose, Corrine, out through your mouth, deep breaths. And so, until the earthquake, I'd gotten through life without any major accidents.

Mum thinks there might have been something in the medicine that reacted with my system. That's why she's very careful about what tablets I have. I suppose that's why she didn't take me to hospital when I burnt my hands; she didn't know what sort of tablets they might give me.

I'm thinking all this as I'm sitting in the train, staring out at the night. I don't like to go to sleep on trains. Something about the movement, the duh-ha rhythym of the carriage brings on bad dreams. So keep myself awake by remembering our old house, how the stairs went up the middle into the hallway on the top floor, and the golden-brown wood panelling that was so shiny you could see your face in it. I really liked our New Zealand house. I don't like our London one as much. Its halls are too narrow and all the stairs are a nuisance when you're in a hurry.

Jamie says he prefers the London house because it's better for parkour, but I wonder if he actually remembers our old house at all.

Gran's head is tipped back against the seat rest and the top band of her teeth have come loose. When she breathes in the teeth move up and when she breathes out the teeth drift downwards. False teeth are so gross.

We've eaten some deeply dodgy hamburger from the catering car. When I was little I used to think it was so exiting to walk up and down the train and buy sweets and fizzy and stuff but now I just realise that while the food creates and illusion of nutrition, its not in fact that healthy for you.

This demonstrates that all these healthy eating classes have actually sunk in, despite my boredom at the time.

There's not that many people in the carriage any more and it's dark now so I can't see outside, there's just our reflections in the window to look at. I thumb through the magazines; mostly, they're boring. Skinny, pale teenagers wearing expensive clothes, put together in a weird way. Models wearing wide brimmed hats with long peacock feathers, chiffon blouses and high cut shorts. Okay, I guess, but the ankle boots don't work that well and their hats look like Gran's.

I put the paper bag of sari material in my case. It still smells of smoke. I wasn't sure what to do with it – I mean, isn't it stolen goods? But I have no idea how to get sari fabric in Devon and it seems a waste not to have it with me, because at least then I can catch up on my Textiles.

My phone rings. So weird. Here I am, thinking about saris and stolen fabric and it's Deepthi on the phone. Like we have some connection or something.

She looks terrible. Black rings under her eyes, and even though she's Indian she seems pale. Although no-one looks good on Skype. I wonder if the app does it on purpose.

'Hi.'

'Hi.'

Pause.

'How are you?' I ask.

'Okay, I suppose.' She looks around. 'I can't talk long. Mum will be home soon.'

Deepthi's not supposed to use Skype. She's only allowed to message me, but who wants to type little letters when they can talk? Not being a big gamer, Mrs Kumar's never checked out the contents of Deepthi's game folder. Deepthi installs all her forbidden apps in that folder.

'What have you been up to?'

She pouts. 'Sitting here, getting bored. I'm supposed to be "resting".' She makes quotation marks in the air with her fingers. 'What about you?'

'I'm going to Devon.' I turn the phone around so she can see the train.

Gran's got her head back and her teeth are free-floating in her mouth. Not a good look.

'Who's that?' Deepthi asks.

'My Gran.'

'Wow. She's really old.'

'Grandmothers tend to be old, Deepthi.'

'I suppose.'

This conversation isn't going anywhere. 'Thanks for the sari material. Your mum dropped it around.'

She makes a face.

Oops. Maybe I shouldn't have mentioned that. 'Sorry.'

'I'm going out with Jonty tomorrow,' Deepthi announces.

'You are? Where to?'

'A movie. Maybe.'

'What movie?'

'Does it matter? It'll be dark – that's all that matters.'

'Deepthi!'

'I'm nearly sixteen, Corrine. Gotta do it sometime.'

Oh my god. She's talking about Going All the Way. 'Oh my God, Deepthi! You're doing it at a movie? With Jonty?'

'What's wrong with Jonty?'

'Nothing, I suppose.' But doesn't she want her first time to be special? Not some random gropings at a movie theatre with spot-infested Jonty MacFarlane. 'Do you like him?'

'Of course,' she smiles suddenly. 'Or I wouldn't go.'

I waggle a finger at her. 'Keep yourself safe, Deepthi Kumar.'

She makes a face at me. 'Yes Miss. What about you, Corrine? Any hot bods in Devon?'

'I think Gran's matchmaking.'

'What do you mean?'

Even though Gran appears to be asleep, I still whisper. Just in case. 'She's been talking about her friend's grandson.'

'No way!'

'Yes way. He'll probably be some in-bred local. All west country accent and big feet.'

Deepthi laughs. 'Who thinks movies are called moving pictures.'

'And phones are mobile telephones.'

'Cars are carriages.'

'The internet is the interweb.'

We both laugh and it feels as though everything's back to normal. But its not, is it? Even allowing for the skype-effect, Deepthi looks sick and me? I've seriously injured a shopkeeper and four random strangers.

Gran makes a weird snort and reassembles her teeth. She opens her eyes, looks at the phone. 'Who's that?'

'It's Deepthi,' I say, turning the phone.

Deepthi looks over her shoulder. 'Shit! It's Mum. Bye Corrine.'

'Be careful, Deepthi.' But she's gone.

I stare at the grey screen, and think of Jonty MacFarlane. What movie is Deepthi dragging him to? Is he even aware of her plans? Probably he is. Deepthi's usually pretty clear in her expectations. What has she told him? Probably she's just said: Fuck me, Jonty. Is that how you get a guy?

Gran rubs her eyes. 'I must be getting old. I forgot your phone.' She waggles her fingers at me. Give it to me. I hand it over, and she holds it in her hand like its something she's heard about, but never seen before. Which is probably true. Because she's not into technology.

She twists it around, then smiles. 'Ah. Here it is.' Opening the back, she pulls out the battery.

'What are you doing?'

'Turning it off.'

'Why?'

'So you can't be tracked, of course.'

'What? Who would want to track me?' She's flipped. Then I remember the men at the station, pointing at me. The cameras turning away. Oh my God. Maybe she's right. May be there is someone.

Reaching into her bag, Gran pulls out a pair of glasses, sets them on her nose. Then she extracts a swiss army knife. Gran, the boy scout.

'Where did you get that from?'

She peers over the top of her glasses. 'This?' wriggles the army knife, so the light glints off its silver trim.

'Yeah.'

'I always have one.'

She stares at the phone like a jeweller inspecting a diamond ring, unfolds one of the many nifty little gadgets from the side of the knife and inserts it into the sim card drawer.

'What are you doing?'

'Taking out your sim.'

'Why?'

'It's safer,' she says. 'I don't want anyone finding out anything about us. I wish they didn't make these so tricky.' The drawer opens with a tiny pop, and she pulls out the little piece of card. 'Eh voila.' Still clutching the sim, she struggles out of her seat.

'Where are you going?'

'The toilet,' she says. 'Get your things together, Corrine. Its not far now.'

'What are you doing with that?'

'Flushing it,' she says.

What the hell! My life's in my phone.

'You're not!'

'Corrine,' she says slowly, as though I'm some exceptionally thick child, 'You don't want them tracking you, do you?'

'You can't do that!' I say. 'That's _my phone_.'

She looks around the carriage, as if checking for strange faces, but how do we know what's normal and what isn't? 'Better to be safe than not. Pass me my cane, will you?'

She extricates herself from the seat, hobbles slowly, innocently, just another old woman going to the toilet.

In that minute, I hate her.


End file.
